influenza about a yearago, and died of it. She lived in Edith Villas, Kensington."
"And Hickman, a fair man, of middle age, with a very ugly face?"
She reflected.
"I have no recollection of ever having met him, or of hearing of him,"she answered. "Was he an intimate friend?"
"I believe so," I said. Then, finding that she could explain nothingmore, I took my leave.
Next day and the next I wandered about London aimlessly and withouthope. Mabel and her mother had, for some unaccountable reason, goneabroad and carefully concealed their whereabouts. Had this fact anyconnexion with the mysterious tragedy that had been enacted at TheBoltons? That one thought was ever uppermost in my mind.
A week passed, and I still remained at the _Grand_, going forth eachday, wandering hither and thither, but never entering the club or goingto places where I thought it likely that I might be recognised. I couldnot return to the life at Denbury with that angular woman at the head ofmy table--the woman who called herself my wife. If I returned I feltthat the mystery of it all must drive me to despair, and I should, in afit of desperation, commit suicide.
I ask any of those who read this strange history of my life, whetherthey consider themselves capable of remaining calm and tranquil in suchcircumstances, or of carefully going over all the events in theirsequence and considering them with logical reasoning. I tried to do so,but in vain. For hours I sat within the hotel smoking and thinking. Iwas living an entirely false life, existing in the fear of recognitionby unknown friends, and the constant dread that sooner or later I mustreturn to that hated life in Devonshire.
That a hue-and-cry had been raised regarding my disappearance was plainfrom a paragraph which I read in one of the morning papers about tendays after my departure from Denbury. In the paragraph I was designatedas "a financier well known in the City," and it was there stated that Ihad left my home suddenly "after betraying signs of insanity," and hadnot since been heard of.
"Insanity!" I laughed bitterly as I read those lines supplied by theExeter correspondent of the Central News. The police had, no doubt,received my description, and were actively on the watch to trace me andrestore me to my "friends."
For nearly a fortnight I had been in hiding, and was now on the verge ofdesperation. By means of one of the cheques I had taken from Denbury Isucceeded in drawing a good round sum without my bankers being aware ofmy address, and was contemplating going abroad in order to avoid thepossibility of being put under restraint as a lunatic, when one evening,in the dusky, sunset, I went forth and wandered down NorthumberlandAvenue to the Victoria Embankment. In comparison with the life andbustle of the Strand and Trafalgar Square, the wide roadway beside theThames is always quiet and reposeful. Upon that same pavement overwhich I now strolled in the direction of the Temple I had, in the daysof my blindness, taken my lessons in walking alone. That pavement hadbeen my practice-ground on summer evenings under the tender guidance ofpoor old Parker, the faithful servant now lost to me. My eyesight hadnow grown as strong as that of other men. The great blank in my mindwas all that distinguished me from my fellows. During those pastfourteen days I had been probing a period which I had not lived, andascertaining by slow degrees the events of my unknown past.
And as I strolled along beneath the plane trees over that broad pavementI recollected that the last occasion I had been there was on thatmemorable evening when I had lost myself, and was subsequently presentat the midnight tragedy in that house of mystery. I gazed around.
In the ornamental gardens, bright with geraniums, some tired Londonerswere taking their ease upon the seats provided by that most paternal ofall metropolitan institutions, the London County Council; children wereshouting as they played at ball and hopscotch, that narrow strip ofgreen being, alas! all they knew of Nature's beauty outside their worldof bricks and mortar. The slight wind stirred the dusty foliage of thetrees beneath which I walked, while to the left river-steamers belchedforth volumes of black smoke, and barges slowly floated down with thetide. On either side were great buildings, and straight before the domeof St Paul's. Over all was that golden, uncertain haze which incentral London is called sunset, the light which so quickly turns tocold grey, without any of those glories of crimson and gold which thosein the country associate with the summer sun's decline.
That walk induced within me melancholy thoughts of a wasted life. Iloved Mabel Anson--I loved her with all my soul. Now that marriage withher was no longer within the range of possibility I was inert anddespairing, utterly heedless of everything. I had, if truth be told, nofurther desire for life. All joy within me was now blotted out.
At length, at Blackfriars Bridge, I retraced my steps, and some twentyminutes later, as I took my key from the hotel bureau, the clerk handedme a note, addressed to "Burton Lawrence, Esquire," the fictitious nameI had given. It had been delivered by boy-messenger.
Then I was discovered! My heart leapt into my mouth.
I tore open the envelope, and read its contents. They were brief and tothe point.
"The undersigned will be obliged," it ran, "if Mr Burton Lawrence willbe present this evening at eight o'clock, in the main-linebooking-office of the Brighton Railway, at Victoria Station. Aninterview is of very pressing importance."
The note was signed, by that single word which had always possessed suchmysterious signification, the word "Avel."
Hitherto, in my old life long ago, receipt of communications from thatmysterious correspondent had caused me much anxiety of mind. I hadalways feared their advent; now, however, I actually welcomed it, eventhough it were strange and unaccountable that the unknown writer shouldknow my whereabouts and the name beneath which I had sought to concealmy identity.
I made a hasty dinner in the coffee-room, and went forthwith toVictoria, wondering whom I should meet. The last time I had kept one ofthose strange appointments on that summer evening long ago in Hyde Park,I had come face to face with the woman I loved. Would that I could meether now!
I entered the booking-office, searching it with eager eyes. Two linesof persons were taking tickets at the pigeon-holes, while a number ofloungers were, like myself, awaiting friends. Beyond, upon theplatform, all was bustle as is usual at that hour, when the belatedportion of business London is bound for the southern suburbs. From thatbusy terminus of the West End trains were arriving and departing eachminute.
The big illumined clock showed that it was yet five minutes to the hour.Therefore I strolled out upon the platform, lounged around thebookstalls, and presently returned to the spot indicated in the letter.
As I re-entered the booking-office my eager eyes fell upon a figurestanding before me--a well-dressed figure, with a face that smiled uponme.
An involuntary cry of surprise escaped my lips. The encounter wassudden and astounding; but in that instant, as I rushed forward to greetthe new-comer, I knew myself to be on the verge of a startling andremarkable discovery.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
THE PERSON WHO KNEW.
The encounter was a startling one.
At the moment when my eyes first fell upon the figure standing patientlyin the booking-office awaiting me, I halted for a second in uncertainty.The silhouette before me was that of a youngish, brown-haired, andrather good-looking woman, neatly dressed in dead black, wearing a largehat and a feather boa round her neck.
By the expression of her face I saw that she had recognised me. I had,of course, never seen her before, yet her personal appearance--the greyeyes and brown hair--were exactly similar to those described so minutelyon several occasions by West, the cab-driver. I regarded her for amoment in silent wonder, then advanced to meet her.
She was none other than the unknown woman who had saved my life on thatfateful night at The Boltons--the mysterious Edna!
As I raised my hat she bowed gracefully, and with a merry smile, said:"I fear that, to you, I am a stranger. I recognise you, however, as MrHeaton."
"That is certainly my na
me," I responded, still puzzled. "And you--well, our recognition is, I believe, mutual--you are Edna."
She glanced at me quickly, as though suspicious. "How did you knowthat?" she inquired. "You have never seen me before. You were totallyblind on the last occasion we met."
"I recognised you from your description," I answered with a light laugh.
"My description!" she echoed in a tone of distinct alarm.
"Yes, the description given of you by the cabman who drove me home onthat memorable morning."
"Ah! Of course," she ejaculated in sudden remembrance. Then, for a fewseconds, she remained in silence. It seemed as though the fact that Ihad recognised her had somewhat confused her.
"But I am extremely glad that we have met at last," I assured her. "Ihave, times without number, hoped to have an opportunity of thanking youfor the great services you once