A silent witness
he--presumably--knew nothing. That was odd. In fact, the whole tone of
the letter, with its inconsistent mixture of urgency and casual
trusting to chance, seemed irreconcilable with the care and method
that one expects from a professional man.
And there was another point. The time of the consultation was
half-past five. Now within an hour of that time Thorndyke would be
back--or even sooner if he came by the earlier train as he had done on
the previous day--as Mr. Courtland must have known, since he knew
whither my principal had gone, and he must have often attended assizes
himself. Could he not have waited an hour? And again; had this
business been sprung upon him so suddenly that he had had no time to
get Thorndyke’s opinion? And, yet again, why had he written at all,
instead of dropping in at our chambers with the solicitor, as was so
commonly done by Thorndyke’s clients?
All of which were curious and puzzling questions which I put to
myself, one by one, and had to dismiss unanswered. And then I came to
the practical question, to which I had to find an answer, and which
was: Could I, under the existing circumstances, accede to Mr.
Courtland’s request? To go outside the precincts of the Inn was, I
recognized, absolutely forbidden; but I had given no actual promise to
remain in our chambers, nor had I been positively forbidden to leave
them. Thorndyke had advised me to remain indoors, and his advice had
been given so pointedly and with so evident a desire that it should be
followed that I had not hitherto even thought of leaving our premises.
But this was an unforeseen contingency; and the question was, did it
alter my position in regard to Thorndyke’s advice?
I think I have never been so undecided in my life. On the one hand, I
was strongly tempted to keep the appointment. The prospect of
triumphantly handing to Thorndyke a five-guinea fee which I had earned
as his deputy appealed to me with almost irresistible force. On the
other hand, my knowledge of Thorndyke did not support this appeal. I
knew him to be a man to whom a principle was much more important than
any chance benefit gained by its abandonment, and my inner
consciousness told me that he would be better pleased by a strict
adherence to our understanding than by the increment of five guineas.
So my thoughts oscillated, to and fro, now impelling me to risk it and
earn the fee, and now urging me to keep to the letter of my
instructions; and, meanwhile, the time ran on and the hour of the
consultation approached. What decision I should have reached, in the
end, it is impossible to say. As matters turned out, I never reached
any decision at all, for, just as the Treasury clock struck a quarter
past five, I heard a light, quick step on our landing and immediately
after a soft but hurried knock at the door.
I strode quickly across the room and threw the door open. And then I
started back with an exclamation of astonishment. For the visitor--who
stood full in the light of the landing-lamp--was a woman; and the
woman was Mrs. Samway.
As I stood gazing at her in amazement, she slipped past me into the
room and softly shut the door. And then I saw very plainly that there
was something amiss, for she was as pale as death, and had a dreadful,
frightened, hunted look which haunts me even now as I write. She was
somewhat dishevelled, too, and, though it was a bitter evening, her
plump, shapely hands were ungloved and cold as ice, as I noted when I
took them in mine.
“Are you alone?” she asked, peering uneasily at the door of the little
office.
“Yes. Quite alone,” I replied.
She gazed at me with those strange, penetrating eyes of hers and said
in a half-whisper: “How strange you look with that beard. I should
hardly have known you if I had not expected--”
She stopped short, and, casting a strange, scared glance over her
shoulder at the dark windows, whispered:
“Can they see in? Can anyone see us from outside?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” I replied; but, nevertheless, I stepped over
to the windows and drew the curtains.
“That looks more comfortable, at any rate,” said I. “And now tell me
how in the name of wonder you knew I was here.”
She grasped both my wrists and looked earnestly--almost fiercely--into
my eyes.
“Ask me no questions!” she exclaimed. “Ask me nothing! But listen. I
have come here for a purpose. Has a letter been left here for you?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Asking you to go to a place in Fig-tree Court?”
“Good God!” I exclaimed. “How on earth--”
She shook my wrists impatiently in her strong grasp. “Answer me!” she
exclaimed; “answer me!”
“Yes,” I replied. “I was to go there at half-past five.”
Again her strong grasp tightened on my wrists. “Humphrey,” she said,
in a low, earnest voice, “you are not to go. Do you hear me? You are
not to go.” And then, as I seemed to hesitate, she continued more
urgently: “I ask you--I beg you to promise me that you won’t.”
I gazed at her in sheer amazement; but some instinct, some faint
glimmer of understanding, restrained me from asking for any
explanation.
“Very well,” I said. “I won’t go if you say I’m not to.”
“That is a promise?”
“Yes, it’s a promise. Besides, it’s nearly half-past already, so if I
don’t go now, the appointment falls through.”
“And you won’t go outside these rooms to-night. Promise me that, too.”
“If I don’t go to this lawyer, I shan’t go out at all.”
“And to-morrow, too. Give me your word that you won’t let any sort of
pretext draw you out of these rooms to-morrow, or the next day, or, in
fact, until Dr. Thorndyke says you may.”
For a few moments I was literally struck dumb with astonishment at her
last words, and could do nothing but gaze at her in astounded silence.
At length, recovering myself a little, I exclaimed:
“My dear Mrs. Samway--,” but she interrupted me.
“Don’t call me by that horrible name! Give me my own name, Letitia;
or,” she added, a little shyly and in a soft, coaxing tone, “call me
Lettie. Won’t you, Humphrey, just for this once? You needn’t mind. You
wouldn’t if you knew. I should like, when I think of my friend--the
only friend that I care for--to remember that he called me by my own
name when he said good-bye. You’ll think me silly and sentimental, but
you needn’t mind indulging me just once. It’s the last time.”
“The last time!” I repeated. “What do you mean by that, Lettie, and by
speaking of our saying good-bye? Are you going away?”
“Yes, I am going away. I don’t suppose you will ever see me again. I
am going out of your life.”
“Not out of my life, Lettie. We are always friends, even if we never
see one another.”
“Are we?” she said, looking up at me earnestly. “Perhaps it is so; but
still, this is good-bye. I ought to say it and go; but O God!” she
exclaimed with sudden passion, “I don’t want to go--away from you,
Humphrey, out into the cold and the dark!”
She buried her face against my shoulder, and I could feel that she was
sobbing though she uttered no sound.
It was a dreadful situation. Instinctively certain though I was that
her grief had a real and tragic basis, I could offer no word of
comfort. For what was there to say? She was going, clearly, to a life
of wretchedness without hope of any relief or change and without a
single friend to cheer her loneliness. That much I could guess,
vaguely and dimly. But it was enough. And it wrung my heart to witness
her passion of grief and to be able to offer no more than a pressure
of the hand.
After a few seconds she raised her head and looked in my face, with
the tears still clinging to her lashes.
“Humphrey,” she said, laying her hands on my shoulders, “I have a few
last words to say to you, and then I must go. Listen to me, dearest
friend, and remember what I say. When I am gone, people will tell you
things and you will come to know others. People will say that I am a
wicked woman, which is true enough, God knows. But if they say that I
have done or connived at wickedness against you, try to believe that
it was not as it seemed, and to forgive me for what I have done amiss.
And say to yourself, ‘This wicked woman would have willingly given her
heart’s blood for me.’ Say that, Humphrey. It is true. I would gladly
give my life to make you safe and happy. And try to think kindly of me
in the evil report that will reach you sooner or later. Will you try,
Humphrey?”
“My dear Lettie,” I said, “we are friends, now and always. Nothing
that I hear shall alter that.”
“I believe you,” she said, “and I thank you from my heart. And now I
must go--I _must_ go; and it’s good-bye--good-bye, Humphrey, for the
very last time.”
She passed her arms around my neck and pressed her wet cheek to mine;
then she kissed me, and, turning away abruptly, walked across to the
door and opened it. On the landing, in the light of the lamp, she
turned once more; and I saw that the hot blush that had risen to her
cheek as she kissed me, had faded already into a deathly pallor, and
that the dreadful, frightened, hunted look had come back into her
face. She stood for a moment with her finger raised warningly and
whispered:
“Good-bye, dear, good-bye! Shut the door now and shut it quietly”; and
then she passed into the opening of the dark staircase.
I closed the door softly and turned away towards the window; and, as I
did so, I heard her stumble slightly on the stair a short way down and
utter a little startled cry. I was nearly going out to her, and did,
in fact, stand a moment or two listening; but, as I heard nothing
more, I moved over to the window, and, drawing back the curtain,
looked down on our doorstep to see her go out. My mind was in a whirl
of confused emotions. Profound pity for this lonely, unhappy,
warm-hearted woman contended with amazement at the revelation of her
manifest connection with the mystery that surrounded me; and I stood
bewildered by the tumult of incoherent thought, grasping the curtain
and looking down on the great square stone that I might, at least,
catch a farewell glance at this poor soul who was passing so
unwillingly out of my life.
The seconds passed. A man came out of our entry, and, turning to the
left, walked at a rapid pace towards the Tudor Street gate. Still she
did not appear. Perhaps she had heard him on the stairs and was
waiting to pass out unnoticed. But yet it was strange. Nearly a minute
had elapsed since she started to descend the stairs. Could I have
missed her? It seemed impossible, since I had come to the window
almost immediately. A vague uneasiness began to take possession of me.
I recalled her white face and frightened eyes, and as I stared down at
the door-step with growing anxiety, I found myself
listening--listening nervously for I knew not what.
Suddenly I caught a sound--faint and vague, but certainly a sound. And
it seemed to come from the staircase. In a moment I had the door open
and was stealing on tip-toe out on the landing. The house was
profoundly silent. No murmur even penetrated from the distant streets.
I crept across the landing, breathing softly and listening. And then,
from the stillness below, but near at hand came a faint, whispering
sigh or moan. Instantly I sprang forward, all of a tremble and darted
down the stairs.
At the first turn I saw, projecting round the angle, a hand--a woman’s
hand, plump and shapely and white as marble. With a gasp of terror I
flew round the turn of the staircase and--
God in Heaven! She was there! Huddled limply in the angle, her head
resting against the baluster and one hand spread out on her bosom, she
lay so still that she might have been dead but for the shallow rise
and fall of her breast and the wide-staring eyes that turned to me
with such dreadful appeal. I stooped over her and spoke her name, and