A silent witness
exclaimed in low, tragical tones:
“Humphrey! You don’t mean to tell me that you came away without his
knowledge!”
“I’m afraid that is what it amounts to. I saw a loop-hole and I popped
through it; and here I am, as I remarked before.”
“But how dreadful of you! Perfectly shocking! And whatever will he say
to you when you go back?”
“That is a question that I am not proposing to present vividly to my
consciousness until I arrive on the doorstep. I’ve broken out of choky
and I’m going to have a good time--to go on having a good time, I
should say.”
“Then you consider that you are having a good time now?”
“I don’t consider. I am sure of it. Am I not, at this very moment
looking at you? And what more could a man desire?”
She tried to look severe, though the attempt was not strikingly
successful, and retorted in an admonishing tone:
“You needn’t try to wheedle me with compliments. You are a very wicked
person and most indiscreet. But it seems to me that some sort of
change has come over you since you retired from the world. Don’t you
think I’m right?”
“You’re perfectly right. I’ve improved. That’s what it is. Matured and
mellowed, you know, like a bottle of claret that has been left in a
cellar and forgotten. Say you think I’ve improved, Sylvia.”
“I won’t,” she replied, and then, changing her mind, she added: “Yes,
I will. I’ll say that you are more insinuating than ever, if that will
do. And now, as you are clearly quite incorrigible, I won’t scold you
any more, especially as you ‘broke out of choky’ to come and see me.
You shall tell me all about your adventures.”
“I didn’t come here to talk about myself, Sylvia. I came to tell you
something--well, about myself, perhaps, but--er--not my adventures you
know or--or that sort of thing--but, I have been thinking a good deal,
since I have been alone so much--about you, I mean, Sylvia--and--er--
Oh! the deuce!”
The latter exclamation was evoked by the warning voice of the gong,
evidently announcing tea, and the subsequent appearance of the
housemaid; who was certainly not such a goose as she was supposed to
be, for she tapped discreetly at the door and waited three full
seconds before entering; and even then she appeared demurely
unconscious of my existence.
“If you please, Miss Sylvia, Miss Vyne has woke up and I’ve taken in
the tea.”
Such was the paltry interruption that arrested the flow of my
eloquence and scattered my flowers of rhetoric to the winds. I
murmured inwardly, “Blow the tea!” for the opportunity was gone; but I
comforted myself with the reflection that it didn’t matter very much,
since Sylvia and I seemed to have arrived at a pretty clear
understanding; which understanding was further clarified by a
momentary contact of our hands as we followed the maid to the
drawing-room. Miss Vyne was on this occasion, as on the last, seated
in the exact centre of the room, and with the same monumental effect;
so that my thoughts were borne irresistibly to the ethnographical
section of the British Museum and especially to that part of it
wherein the deities of Polynesia look out from their cases in
perennial surprise at the degenerate European visitors. If she had
been asleep previously, she was wide enough awake now; but the
glittering eyes were not directed at me. From the moment of our
entering the room they focussed themselves on Sylvia’s face and there
remained rivetted, whereby the heightening of that young lady’s
complexion, which our interview had produced, became markedly
accentuated. It was to no purpose that I placed myself before the
rigid figure and offered my hand. A paw was lifted automatically to
mine, but the eyes remained fixed on Sylvia.
“What did you say this gentleman’s name was?” the waxwork asked
frigidly.
“This is Dr. Jardine,” was the reply.
“Oh, indeed. And who was the gentleman who called some three weeks
ago?”
“Why, that was Dr. Jardine; you know it was.”
“So I thought, but my memory is not very reliable. And this is a Dr.
Jardine, too? Very interesting. A medical family, apparently. But not
much alike.”
I was beginning to explain my identity and the cause of my altered
appearance, when Sylvia approached with a cup of tea and a carefully
dissected muffin, which latter she thrust under the nose of the elder
lady; who regarded it attentively and with a slight squint, owing to
its nearness.
“It’s of no use, you know,” said Sylvia, “for you to pretend that you
don’t know him, because I’ve told you all about the
transformation--that is, all I know myself. Don’t you think it’s
rather a clever make-up?”
“If,” said Miss Vyne, “by ‘make-up’ you mean a disguise, I think it is
highly successful. The beard is a most admirable imitation.”
“Oh, the beard is his own; at least, I think it is.”
I confirmed this statement, ignoring Polton’s slight additions.
“Indeed,” said Miss Vyne. “Then the wig--it is a wig, I suppose?”
“No, of course it isn’t,” Sylvia replied.
“Then,” said Miss Vyne, majestically, “perhaps you will explain to me
what the disguise consists of.”
“Well,” said Sylvia, “there are the eyebrows. You can see that they
have been completely altered in shape.”
“If I had committed the former shape of the eyebrows to memory, as you
appear to have done,” said Miss Vyne, “I should, no doubt, observe the
change. But I did not. It seems to me that the disguise which you told
me about with such a flourish of trumpets just amounts to this; that
Dr. Jardine has allowed his beard to grow. I find the reality quite
disappointing.”
“Do you?” said Sylvia. “But, at any rate, you didn’t recognize him; so
your disappointment doesn’t count for much.”
The old lady, being thus hoist with her own petard, relapsed into
majestic silence; and Sylvia then renewed her demand for an account of
my adventures.
“We want to hear all about that objectionable person who has been
shadowing you, and how you finally got rid of him. Your letters were
rather sketchy and wanting in detail, so you have got to make up the
deficiency now.”
Thus commanded, I plunged into an exhaustive account of those events
which I have already chronicled at length and which I need not refer
to again, nor need I record the cross-examination to which I was
subjected, since it elicited nothing that is not set forth in the
preceding pages. When I had finished my recital, however, Miss Vyne,
who had listened to it in silence, hitherto, put a question which I
had some doubts about answering.
“Have you or Dr. Thorndyke been able to discover who this inquisitive
person is and what is his object in following you about?”
I hesitated. As to my own experiences, I had no secrets from these
friends of mine, excepting those that related to the subjects of
Thorndyke’s investigations, but I must not come here and babble about
what took place in the sacred precincts of my principal’s chambers.
“I think I may tell you,” said I, “that Dr. Thorndyke has discovered
the identity of this man and that he is not the person whom we
suspected him to be. But I mustn’t say any more, as the information
came through professional channels and consequently is not mine to
give.”
“Of course you mustn’t,” said Sylvia; “though I don’t mind admitting
that you have put me on tenterhooks of curiosity. But I daresay you
will be able to tell us everything later.”
I agreed that I probably should; and the talk then turned into fresh
channels.
The short winter day was running out apace. The daylight had long
since gone, and I began, with infinite reluctance, to think of
returning to my cage. Indeed, when I looked at my watch, I was
horrified to see how the time had fled.
“My word!” I exclaimed. “I must be off, or Thorndyke will be putting
the sleuth-hounds of the law on my track. And I don’t know what you
will think of me for having stayed such an unconscionable time.”
“It isn’t a ceremonial visit,” said Sylvia, as I rose and made my
adieux to her aunt. “We should have liked you to stay much longer.”
Here she paused suddenly, and, clasping her hands, gazed at me with an
expression of dismay.
“Good Heavens! Humphrey!” she exclaimed.
“Eh?” said Miss Vyne.
“I was addressing Dr. Jardine,” Sylvia explained, in some confusion.
“I didn’t suppose you were addressing me,” was the withering reply.
“Do you know,” said Sylvia, “that I haven’t shown you those sketches,
after all. You must see them. They were the special object of your
visit.”
This was perfectly untrue, and she knew it; but I did not think it
worth while to contest the statement in Miss Vyne’s presence.
Accordingly I expressed the utmost eagerness to see the trumpery
sketches, and the more so since I had understood that they were on
view in the studio; which turned out to be the case.
“It won’t take a minute for you to see them,” said Sylvia. “I’ll just
run up and light the gas; and you are not to come in until I tell
you.”
She preceded me up the stairs to the little room on the first floor in
which she worked, and, when I had waited a few moments on the landing
she summoned me to enter.
“These are the sketches,” said she, “that I have finished. You see,
they are quite presentable now. I cleaned off the rough daubs of paint
with a scraper and finished up with a soft rag dipped in chloroform.”
I ran my eye over the framed sketches, which, now that the canvases
were strained on stretchers and the disfiguring brush-strokes removed,
were, as she had said, quite presentable, though too rough and
unfinished to be attractive.
“I daresay they are very interesting,” said I, “but they are only bare
beginnings. I shouldn’t have thought them worth framing.”
“Not as pictures,” she agreed; “but as examples of a very curious
technique, I find them most instructive. However, you haven’t seen the
real gem of the collection. This is it, on the easel. Sit down, on the
chair and say when you are ready. I’m going to give you a surprise.”
I seated myself on the chair opposite the easel, on which was a canvas
with its back towards me.
“Now,” said Sylvia. “Are you ready? One, two, three!”
She picked up the canvas, and, turning it round quickly, presented its
face to me. I don’t know what I had expected--if I had expected
anything; but certainly I was not in the least prepared for what I
saw. The sketch had originally represented, very roughly, a dark mass
of trees which occupied nearly the whole of the canvas; but of this
the middle had been cleaned away, exposing an under painting. And this
it was that filled me with such amazement that, after a first startled
exclamation, I could do nothing but stare open-mouthed at the canvas;
for, from the opening in the dark mass of foliage there looked out at
me, distinct and unmistakable, the face of Mrs. Samway.
It was no illusion or chance resemblance. Rough as the painting was,
the likeness was excellent. All the well-known features which made her
so different from other women were there, though expressed by a mere
dextrous turn of the knife; the jet-black, formally-parted hair, the
clear, bright complexion, the pale, inscrutable eyes; all were there,
even to the steady, penetrating expression that looked out at me from
the canvas as if in silent recognition. As I sat staring at the
picture with a surprise that almost amounted to awe, Sylvia looked at
me a little blankly.
“Well!” she exclaimed, at length, “I meant to give you a surprise,
but--what is it, Humphrey? Do you know her?”
“Yes,” I replied; “and so do you. Don’t you remember a woman who
looked in at you through the glass door of Robinson’s shop?”
“Do you mean that black and scarlet creature? I didn’t recognize her.
I had no idea she was so handsome; for this is really a very beautiful
face, though there is something about it that I don’t understand.