An Eye for an Eye Part 36

How I performed my duties that morning I scarcely knew, for my brain was in a whirl with the amazing discoveries of the past night, I loved Eva, yet the contents of those concealed drawers were sufficient in themselves to convince Boyd of her guilt. A fearful and perpetual dread seized me lest she should be arrested. Boyd's method of work was, I knew, always bold and decisive. A detective, to be successful, must act without hesitation. In this affair he had obtained evidence which, from every point of view, proved but one fact, and one alone--her guilt.

Indeed, I now remembered with bitterness how she had to me openly declared herself guilty; how she had prophesied that one day I should hate all mention of her name. Did it not seem quite clear, too, that this very drug which I had found in the small wooden box, the drug which had been instantly fatal to the poor brute upon which we tried it, was the same which had been administered to me by her hand?

When I thought of that I felt glad that I had a.s.sisted my friend of Scotland Yard, and that with my own hands had unearthed evidence which must lead to her conviction. Her arrest was, I knew from my friend's remarks, only a matter of days, perhaps, indeed, of hours.

"You can't now seek to s.h.i.+eld Miss Glaslyn," he had remarked when we had been waiting for the train on Richmond platform. "The proofs are far too strong. If we could only discover the author of those type-written letters we would be able to find out what the Silence refers to, and to move with much more certainty. As we can't, we must fix our theory firmly and act boldly upon it."

"Do you mean that you intend to apply for a warrant against her?" I inquired, dismayed.

"We shall obtain one against somebody, but who it may be of course depends entirely upon the result of our subsequent investigations.

People don't keep bodies locked up in their houses without some very strong motive."

It now struck me as exceedingly strange why Eva should have been so anxious to prevent me revisiting Riverdene. She had hinted that the Blains were my enemies, yet was it not more likely that my presence reminded her too vividly of her sin, and she also feared the vengeance of Mary Blain? There was undoubtedly some deep motive underlying this effort to prevent me visiting the Blains, but as I reflected upon it I failed to decide what it might be. She had spoken of it as though it were for my benefit, and as if she had my welfare at heart, yet I could not fail to detect how hollow was the sham, for the Blains were my friends of long standing, and since my visit at Mary's request my welcome had always been a most cordial one.

Mary had certainly no cause for jealousy, for she and I had on several occasions, when alone on the river, spoken of the past. She had, indeed, ridiculed my boyish love for her, and observed that we were both older and more discreet nowadays. I had long been a.s.sured by her words and her att.i.tude that her affection for me--if she had really ever entertained any--had entirely pa.s.sed away.

No, I could not understand Eva's present att.i.tude. It was entirely an enigma. She seemed filled with some nameless terror, the reason of which our discoveries seemed to prove up to the hilt.

Day followed day, each to me full of anxiety and bewilderment. On parting from Boyd he had told me to remain in patience until he communicated with me. I was not to return to Riverdene, neither was I to mention a single word to d.i.c.k regarding recent occurrences.

I wandered from end to end of London day after day, reporting the events which daily crop up in the Metropolis. It seemed to me as if those days would never end. I saw nothing but the face of Eva. The world which had seemed to me so beautiful had changed; Heaven was cruel. It created loveliness only to pollute and deform it afterwards. Out of my dreams I was brought face to face with facts that sickened me. The old landmarks of my faith were gone. Whatever happy hopefulness of nature I possessed was crushed. I was bewildered and sick at heart. Yet through it all I could not thrust away from me Eva's wondrous beauty. Her form, her gaze, her smile, her sigh--I could think of nothing else. Yet the mockery of it all stung me to despair, and despair is man's most frequent visitor.

A week thus pa.s.sed. I saw her in the air, in the clouds, everywhere; her voice rang in my ears; she was so lovely--and yet she was so vile--a poisoner!

One afternoon I had returned to Gray's Inn unusually early, about three o'clock, put on my old lounge-coat, a river "blazer," and sat down to write up an interview for publication next day, when I heard a ring at the door, voices outside the room, and a few moments later Mrs. Joad entered, saying--"'Ere's a lady wants to see you, sir."

"A lady?" I exclaimed, turning quickly in my chair. "Ask her in."

I rose, brus.h.i.+ng down my hair with my hand, and next moment found myself face to face with Eva.

She advanced with her hand outstretched and a smile upon her face, that countenance that was ever before me in my day-dreams.

"How fortunate I am to find you in," she exclaimed, half breathless after the ascent of the stairs. "I've been to your office, and they told me that you were probably at home."

"It is I who am fortunate," I answered, laughing gaily, placing the armchair for her and drawing out a little oaken footstool, a relic from some bygone generation of men who had tenanted those grimy old rooms.

With a sigh she seated herself, and then for the first time I noticed the deathly pallor of her cheeks. Even her thick veil did not conceal it. She was in black, neat as usual, but her skirt was unbrushed and dusty, and her hair was just a trifle awry, as though she had been travelling about some hours.

"I have called upon you here for the first and for the last time," she said in a broken voice, looking seriously across to me, as the unwonted tears sprang into her eyes.

"The last time!" I echoed. "What do you mean?"

"I have come to wish you farewell," she said in a low, faltering voice.

"I am leaving London. My mother and I are going abroad."

"Abroad? Where?" I cried, dismayed.

"My mother's health is not good, and the doctor has ordered her to the South immediately. He says that she must never return to this climate, because it will hasten her malady to a fatal termination. Therefore, in future we must be exiles." She was looking straight into my face as she spoke, and those great wondrous eyes of hers that I had believed to be so pure and honest never wavered. "I leave to-morrow and join her," she added.

"Then she has already gone!" I exclaimed, the truth at once flas.h.i.+ng upon me that Lady Glaslyn had actually fled.

"Yes. The doctor has so frightened her that I could not induce her to stay and pack. I shall join her in Paris," she explained quite calmly.

"There is no help for it. We must part."

"But surely," I said in desperation, "you will not leave me thus? You will return to England sometimes."

"I really don't know," she answered in a strained, hoa.r.s.e voice.

"At least you will give me hope that some day you will be my wife, Eva,"

I said, tenderly grasping her hand, which seemed limp and trembling.

"You know how fondly I love you, how--"

I started quickly and turned, puzzled at the unusual sound of voices, without finis.h.i.+ng the sentence. One voice I recognised speaking in deep tones to Mrs. Joad, and dropping the hand I held I rushed out, closing the door behind me.

As I did so, I came face to face with Boyd, accompanied by two plain-clothes officers.

"We've followed her here," he explained. "She means to get away abroad, therefore we must now execute the warrant. I regret it, for your sake."

A loud piercing shriek from within told me that she had overheard those fateful words.

"No," I cried. "By Heaven! you shan't arrest her!" and I resolutely barred his pa.s.sage to the inner room. "As I love her you shall never enter there! She shall never be taken as a common criminal!"

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

HER LADYs.h.i.+P.

Boyd, seeing my fierce determination, held back, a look of undisguised annoyance upon his face.

"I have a duty to perform. I beg of you not to obstruct me, Mr. Urwin,"

he said coldly. "It is quite as unpleasant to me as to you."

"Unpleasant!" I echoed. "I tell you that you shall not arrest her,"

and I stood firmly with my back to the door of my room.

"Come," he said, in a tone of persuasion. "This action of yours cannot benefit her in the least. She has made every preparation for flight.

Her trunk is in the cloakroom at Charing Cross Station, and she means within an hour to get away to the Continent. Let me pa.s.s."

"I shall not," I roared.

"In that case I shall be compelled to use force, however much I regret it."

As he uttered these words the door was suddenly flung back, and I saw Eva's tragic, almost funereal, figure in the opening. She was white to the lips, her countenance terribly wan and haggard.

"Enough!" she cried hoa.r.s.ely. "Let the police enter. I am ready," and she tottered back, clutching at the corner of my writing-table for support.

Her outward purity and innocence were a rare equipment for the committal of a crime. Who, indeed, would have suspected her of guile and intrigue? When Love is dead there is no G.o.d.