The Golden Web Part 22

"It is an apartment house for women only," she answered. "I cannot take you there."

"Then we must go to a hotel," he said. "It seems a mockery to buy clothes, but there are one or two things I must have. To-morrow we will go somewhere south."

She glanced at the clock. "I will see whether I can get away now," she said.

She disappeared, and came out again in a few minutes with her hat on.

"Come," she said.

He led her to the cab outside. "We will drive to a hotel," he said.

"When we have taken some rooms, you shall go and see Mr. Deane. I think that he will come to me if you will tell him that I am free, that I have only three weeks to live, and that I should like to see him."

"Very well," she answered.

They stepped into the cab. "Tell him to drive to one of the large hotels," Rowan said,--"any except the Universal."

She shuddered as she gave the order. She, too, had her memories of the Universal, of which he knew nothing. Slowly they made their way westwards. The girl held his hand in hers.

"It is good to see you again, Basil," she said.

"It is good to be here again," he answered, "to be out in the world, even though it be to die. I suppose the authorities have really been kind to me. It is as much as anyone could expect. And yet, Winifred, I should like you to remember this always. The quarrel between Sinclair and myself was of his seeking--not mine. The blow of which he died was struck purely in self-defence. I could box and he couldn't, or he would have half killed me that night."

"I know," she answered breathlessly. "Don't talk of it."

He went on, as though not hearing her. "He came at me with both hands clenched, and I hit him under the chin. I had to, or he would have killed me if he could. He was a strong man, and he had been drinking until he was half mad. It was not my fault, Winifred."

"Oh, I know that!" she said. "Try and forget it now. It was a wicked, wicked accident."

"Life has been wicked enough for you and me lately," he answered, sighing. "You are worn to a shadow, Winifred. I suppose it is this wretched typing, day by day. We must put an end to it."

She shook her head. "I must earn a living, dear," she said. "But don't bother about me. I shall be all right. See, he has stopped. This must be--yes, it is the Grand Hotel. Will that do?"

He nodded. "Quite well," he answered.

He paid the cabman, and making some excuse at the office about luggage to come, took rooms. Then he put Winifred into a hansom, and wrote down for her Deane's address, which she already knew.

"Bring him back with you if you can," he begged. "Bring him back here. I shall be waiting in the reading-room, just round the corner there to the right."

She hesitated. "You look so faint, Basil," she said. "I am not sure whether I ought to leave you."

"I am going to have some brandy and milk," he answered. "I am going to sit down and have it there in that corner. I shall wait till you come.

You will know where to look for me. Hurry, dear, please. I shall know no peace until I have seen Deane."

CHAPTER II

A LAPSE OF MEMORY

Deane sat at his desk, immersed once more in the affairs of his great business. His cheeks were bronzed with the sun and heather-scented wind.

His eyes were clear and bright. All traces of the unsettlement of those few nervous weeks seemed to have pa.s.sed away. One thing only occasionally disturbed him--the non-appearance of Winifred Rowan. Since those few seconds of tremulous excitement when they had stood face to face in the darkened room of the hotel, he had neither seen nor heard from her. He could understand her having left the hotel hurriedly. He could have understood her keeping away for a day or two. But a whole month had pa.s.sed, and she had taken no steps whatever to communicate with him. He had left exact instructions as to what was to be done should she come to the office while he was in Scotland. He had had the whole of his private letters forwarded, lest by chance a word from her should fail to reach him. There was something a little ominous in this absolute silence, something which troubled him occasionally, which set him thinking, wondering, whether under that still, quiet demeanor there might be qualities of which he had taken no account,--whether indeed she, too, were not a schemer who meant to make the most of this opportunity which chance had thrown in her way.

A clerk entered and stood at his side. "A young lady is here to see you, sir," he announced,--"Miss Rowan."

"Miss Rowan," Deane repeated mechanically.

"Yes, sir!" the clerk answered. "We have instructions outside to let you know if she called at any time."

Deane leaned back in his chair. With a few quick words he dismissed his secretary from the immediate business in hand. "You may show Miss Rowan in," he said.

A moment or two later she entered. Deane watched her with a new curiosity as he rose to his feet. She was as quietly dressed as usual, as pale, and her eyes, except for one upward glance, seemed always to be seeking the carpet. There was something curiously negative about her appearance,--something, it seemed to him, almost wilfully so. The rich brown hair, which had flashed almost to golden in the morning sunlight at Rakney, was drawn up and concealed, as though the owner's sole object was that it might escape attention. Her clothes were not unbecoming, but they were the quietest of their sort. Her eyes, which should have been beautiful, were so perpetually veiled and hidden that their quality was lost. Both physically and in her reticent speech she appealed to him more than ever that morning as a woman whose desire seemed to be to creep through life unnoticed.

"At last!" he remarked, holding out his hand pleasantly. "I have been expecting to see you for some time, Miss Rowan."

"You have been expecting to see me?" she repeated, raising her eyes to his. "How strange!"

"Why strange?" he answered, glancing around the room, and lowering his voice a little. "Don't you remember at our last meeting you promised to bring my tea a few hours later? Since then, I have not even seen you, nor have you sent me a line."

She raised her eyes again and looked at him. They were very beautiful eyes, but he did not understand the somewhat blank expression which shone out of them. "I do not understand you," she said quietly.

Deane would have been irritated, but something in her manner struck him as so strange that his feeling turned to one of bewilderment. "Come," he said, "you are not going to suggest that I have been dreaming, or that you have had one of these fas.h.i.+onable lapses of memory? You remember meeting me in that room in the Universal Hotel?"

Without change of countenance or expression she answered, "I have never been in the Universal Hotel in my life!"

Deane looked at her, his lips a little parted, and as he looked his feeling of bewilderment grew. "My dear young lady," he protested, "do you mean to tell me--"

"You have been mistaking me for someone else, I think," she said calmly.

"There are so many people about who are like me. We will not talk of this just now, if you do not mind. I have come to you from my brother."

"Well?" said Deane.

"My brother is free," she went on. "He was released at nine o'clock this morning. The doctor at the prison signed a certificate that he has only a month or so to live. He is free on the understanding that he goes away to some quiet place. He came to me an hour ago. It is at his wish that I am here."

"Go on," Deane rapped out.

"He wishes to see you," she said. "That is all. He does not think that there is any risk about it, under the circ.u.mstances. We are staying for the night at the Grand Hotel. To-morrow we shall go down to Devons.h.i.+re or Cornwall. He will be glad if you will come and see him as soon as possible."

"I will come," Deane said, "but first, Miss Rowan, I must have an understanding with you."

"An understanding with me?" she repeated slowly.

"Naturally," he answered. "I want to know, first of all, whether you are my friend or my enemy,--whether, in short, you mean to play the blackmailer, or whether you mean to return to me that doc.u.ment which you abstracted from amongst Sinclair's effects."

She drew a little sigh. "I am quite sure now, Mr. Deane," she said, "that you are mistaking me for someone else. I do not know what you are talking about."

Deane was silent for several moments. He was feeling nervous and disturbed. There was something uncanny about this quiet, persistent denial,--the still face, the steadfast, beautiful eyes, which seemed yet like unlit fires devoid of sympathy or apprehension.