Chapter IV: Matched

This gift of mine of entering into people’s confidence, even against their will, has occasionally placed me in the most uncomfortable situations. Take, for instance, what I will call the Affair of the Pleasure Cruise, or Matched.

The story began at Charing Cross Station. I had just entered the station and was looking about for the platform from which my train was going to start, when I saw one man hurrying up to another. I do not know what it was which caused him to catch my eye, unless it was that he was in such desperate haste, and was so covered with freckles, and had such a very red moustache; but I distinctly saw him say to the other--what he meant I had not the dimmest notion; some of the language he used was strange:

“She’s done a bunk all right, and is away with the best of the swag. Here’s her brief.” He handed to the other man what looked to me like a continental railway-ticket. “I don’t fancy the bloke is going; you’ll have to go on and get the lot out the other end. It’s worth having, you know; we’ll be able to plant it easily. You understand? Move yourself; the train’s just starting.”

The man addressed did move himself, tearing through a gate over which was a board inscribed “Folkestone Harbour and Continent.” His doing so made me think of Mr. Brookes. I had been to his wedding that morning, and had, indeed, only just come away from the reception which followed. I had gathered that he and his bride were to travel by that boat-train.

Thinking thus about the bride and bridegroom, who, since the train had started, I took it for granted were already on their way, what was my surprise to see coming through the wicket on to the platform which the boat-train had just quitted--Mr. Everard Brookes! He had discarded the orthodox “frocker” in which he had been married, and in which I had seen him last, for a grey tweed suit--but it was he. And he seemed to be in a state of great disturbance, as if he were looking for some one he could not find. A railway official was on either side of him, each of whom seemed doing his best to calm his obvious agitation. What struck me as the strangest part of it was that he was alone. An idea occurred to me as I walked towards him.

“Mr. Brookes,” I asked, “have you missed your train? You haven’t let your wife go off alone?”

“She hasn’t gone on alone,” he rejoined. “She isn’t in the train at all.”

“She might have been in the train, you know, sir,” struck in one of the officials. “It’s not easy to make out every one who’s travelling in a long train like that.”

Mr. Brookes turned on him with a show of anger which I knew was quite foreign to his character.

“I tell you I saw her go through the gate as clearly as I see you now, but though I watched for her to come back she never returned, although I never once took my eyes off the gate; that I am prepared to swear.”

He turned to me with an explanation of his discomposure which filled me with surprise.

“We were standing, my wife and I, outside the compartment in which I had reserved our seats, when, about ten minutes before the train was due to start, she said to me: ‘Everard, I’ve forgotten something. I must go and see about it at once. I’ll be back in a moment.’ She got into the compartment, took her travelling-bag off the seat, and was about to hurry down the platform. I asked her what she had thought of so suddenly; if it was something she wanted I offered to go and get it for her. She laughed at me. ‘You stay where you are and let no one get into our carriage. I’ll be back in less than a minute.’ She was off before I could stop her. I thought it rather odd that she had thought of something so very pressing at the last minute, and had actually taken her bag with her, which contained all her belongings. I saw her go down the platform and through the gate; then, when I had waited two minutes, I strolled down the platform to see if I could discover her. I could see nothing. I was afraid to go through the gate lest we should miss each other, so I stood close to the gate, and I’ll swear that no one the least like her came through it.”

Mr. Brookes took off his bowler hat and passed his handkerchief across his brow. I had never seen him so disturbed.

“It occurred to me, after I had been waiting some little time, and the train was due to start, that, at her suggestion, I had put the tickets in her bag and practically all my money. I did not know what to do. I had never been in such a position in my life; I had not dreamt that I could be in such a position. They were calling out, ‘Take your seats,’ and were shutting the doors. What had become of Clare? I could not imagine. I could not go without her. Our luggage was in the train, I could not ask the officials to delay the train on our account, and while I was in a state bordering on distraction the issue was taken out of my hands--the train started; and now”--turning to one of the officials--“this man wants me to believe that she was in the train after all. I am perfectly certain that she was nothing of the kind. What has become of her I don’t know, but I’ll swear she wasn’t in that train.”

The amazing part of it was that he never did know what had become of her--the bride had left the bridegroom on the eve of their wedding journey and vanished into space. Unfortunately, there were one or two suspicious circumstances about that vanishing. She had taken her brand-new dressing-case with her, a present from him, which contained all their portable property which was worth having--besides two hundred pounds in English money which was to have been spent upon the honeymoon. Mr. Brookes never saw any of that again. The heavy luggage which had gone on by the train was claimed at the Gare du Nord by an individual who produced the checks for it, as well as the keys, which permitted of the Customs examination--and that vanished. The wedding reception had been held at a South Kensington hotel, at which the presents had been exhibited. Before Mr. Brookes got back to it some one called for the presents, armed with a letter from Mrs. Brookes--it seemed that she had made arrangements with the hotel people before she left to hand over the presents to some one who was to call for them--and they were never seen again.

The thing was very well done; Mr. Brookes found that he had been robbed in almost every direction in which he could have been robbed. To an onlooker it had its comical side, but it was a tragedy to him. He told me afterwards that, in one way or another, he reckoned he had been done out of more than a thousand pounds--to say nothing of his wife.

He had gone on one of those cruises, which are so in vogue nowadays, to the Norwegian fiords. On the boat was a most charming lady, a Miss Clare Percival. He was a well-to-do bachelor, about forty years of age--the lady struck him as being the wife he had been looking for for years. Affairs of that sort on yachts I believe grow rapidly. Ere long she owned that she liked him, when he asked her; before they reached England--I think it was a twenty-eight-day cruise--the liking had turned to love, or so she said. Three weeks after they were back in London they were married--that episode at Charing Cross Station was the result. The whole affair was decidedly funny--except for the mourning bridegroom.

About eighteen months afterwards I went for a yachting cruise--mine was to the Morocco coast and all sorts of pleasant-sounding places. Our party--we were called a “party”--consisted of about fifty persons. We had not been two days at sea when I had become impressed by two facts. One was that we had on board the proprietor of “Ebenezer’s Grey-Blue Pills” and samples of his large and ebullient family, and the other was that among the passengers was a lady whose appearance had the most singular effect on me. The moment I saw her I had a feeling that I had seen her somewhere before, but for the life of me I could not think where and when.

She was a delightful person; full of resource, skilled in all sorts of what are known as “parlour tricks”; she could sing and recite, tell funny tales, perform conjuring tricks, and play on the piano and the banjo and the fiddle, and, what was then the latest craze in musical instruments, the balalaika. She was good at bridge--some of the people said she was the best lady-player they had seen, and her knowledge of the sort of games which are calculated to amuse a general company was simply abnormal. She seemed to have lots of money, and some pretty dresses and some nice jewels. Before we were out of the Bay of Biscay she was the most prominent and popular person on board. By that time she had given people to understand, in a casual kind of way, that she had been an actress, and that she had been a singer, and that she had been an entertainer, and that she had written things and painted things--but I was commencing to wonder if she had ever been Mrs. Everard Brookes.

I frankly admit that the idea first came into my head because of the similarity of the cases; Mrs. Brookes had once been a single lady on a yachting cruise, and here was Marianne Tracy--she took pains to explain exactly how “Marianne” ought to be spelt--occupying precisely the same position. Of course, that was merely a coincidence; lots of single ladies go on yachting cruises, and they are all of them charming and respectable; and beyond that coincidence there was nothing, absolutely nothing. She bore no physical resemblance, from what I remembered, to Mrs. Brookes. I had only seen that lady once, and that was at her wedding, and I had a more or less vague recollection that she had fair hair, which matched her complexion, and that she was tall and slender, and, to my mind, uncomfortably prim; just the colourless sort of person one would expect Mr. Brookes to marry. Miss Tracy was black as night--black hair, black eyes, black eyebrows, and even the faintest shadow of what might be a black moustache. She was no taller than I was, but she was much plumper, and she was full of vivacity and high spirits; and as for prim--I do not wish to do the lady an injustice, but even by abuse of language one could not call her prim. She was hail fellow with every one on board--the officers, the passengers, the stewards, the crew, and, I dare say, the stokers down below; she had a knack of making friends with every one with whom she came in contact. Seeing, as I do, a great deal more than many people suppose, I was not a little tickled by some of the conversations in which I saw her take a very active part. She was a flirt. Before we were out of the Bay I believe that most of the male creatures on board, of all sorts and kinds, were under the impression that she was in love with them.

It was that faculty which I possess of seeing so much more than many folks guess which caused my vague suspicion to take, by degrees, a very concrete form. It was the evening on which we were leaving Gibraltar, where we had spent the day. Most gorgeous weather--the sky was ablaze with stars. I was prowling about the ship when, in a corner on the lower deck, I came upon an individual the sight of whom gave me quite a start. He was in a steward’s uniform, but I had certainly never seen him on board before. Whatever his duties might be, they had never brought him into the passengers’ saloons; I should have recognized him on the instant if they had. His was a face which, once seen by an observant pair of eyes like mine, was not likely to be forgotten, even after a lapse of eighteen months--and that period of time had passed since I had seen him.

The last, and first, time I had beheld that gentleman was at Charing Cross Railway Station on the afternoon on which Mrs. Everard Brookes had disappointed her husband by vanishing on the eve of their honeymoon. He was the individual who had hurried up to a masculine acquaintance and told him, right in front of me, that some one feminine had “done a bunk all right,” and was “away with the best of the swag”; and had handed him what he called “her brief,” and which had seemed to me to be a continental railway-ticket. There was no mistaking those freckles and that flaming moustache--or, indeed, the man as a whole.

My surprise at seeing him there was so great that for some seconds I did not realize whom he was talking to; then I saw that it was Miss Marianne Tracy; and, as I watched what they were saying, I began to understand. He said to her:

“The best of the old girl’s things he takes care of; those diamonds and pearls which we got the office about, which the old girl flashes around, are in a bag which he keeps in his locker. Some of the girls’ things are in it too; I dropped into the cabin as if by accident the other morning, and I saw him put them into his bag.”

The man winked at her when he said “by accident”; I have no doubt that Miss Tracy grasped his meaning. I had had no intention of playing the spy--I had made no attempt to conceal myself; so that when Miss Tracy looked round, as she did just at that moment, she saw me at once. With perfect presence of mind she came straight up to me.

“Taking a stroll about the ship, Miss Lee?”

I do not know what possessed me; I do sometimes yield to impulse, and I did then. This person did seem to me to be such an impudent piece of goods that, without counting the cost, I felt bound to have a shot at her--and I did then and there. I looked her very straight in the face, and with what I am sure was the most perfect civility I asked her a question.

“Aren’t you Mrs. Everard Brookes?”

She did not change countenance--the baggage! She must have had a front of brass. She just looked at me inquiringly, and she smiled, and she said:

“So! We have met before, Miss Lee!”

She put her lips together, and she gave a tiny little whistle; it was scarcely audible, but I fancy it was heard by some one, because, without a moment’s warning, some one, stealing on me from behind, put something over my head which blocked out all the light and made it difficult for me to breathe, and I was dragged down backwards on to the deck. I would have screamed when I got there, only a hand was pressed against my mouth, on the outside of the stuff which covered my face, and I could not utter a sound. The same hand held me down tight, another took me by the throat and almost choked me, while a second pair of hands took hold of my wrists and tied them together, and then did the same to my ankles. I could not struggle, because the pressure on my mouth and throat seemed to be driving the sense all out of me. Then two hands were slipped under the cloth, my jaw was forced open, something was thrust into it--and there was I as helpless as a trussed fowl, and incapable of uttering a sound.

I am free to admit that it was very well done, evidently by persons who had done that sort of thing before. I had not the use of my eyes, but, if I could trust my ears, not a word was spoken nor an instant wasted. Presently two pairs of hands lifted me by the head and heels; I was carried a few feet, and deposited under what I have no doubt was cover, and there I remained for I have not the faintest notion how long. And in the cabin, as I was perfectly aware, they were waiting for me to make a four at bridge. I could picture Miss Tracy explaining how I had been overcome by a sudden headache, and how I had asked her, with their permission, to take my place; and as I continued to lie in that ignominious position I have no doubt that the creature who had been chiefly instrumental in putting me there was playing my hands.

Time passed; the hours went by--they seemed to me years--and as I was wondering if I had become an old woman and my hair had turned grey, I was lifted again by two pairs of hands, though I had not heard a sound of anyone approaching. I was carried this time some distance; a rope was tied round my waist, and immediately afterwards I became pleasantly conscious that I was being lowered over the side of the ship. I took it for granted that my two friends, desirous of avoiding the noise of a splash, had adopted this method of dropping me into the sea. I feared my end had come, and was momentarily expecting to come in contact with the water, when I went plump against something solid instead, and on what I had bumped against I stayed. The tension of the rope ceased. I was being lowered no longer; apparently I was on, or in, something. I suppose I was there some minutes before I discovered that the ligature which bound my wrists together was not so taut as it had been, and it did not take me very long after the discovery was made to wriggle both my hands loose. Then I put them up and pulled that covering off my head and face. I found it was a canvas-bag which had contained something undesirable, because my eyes, and nostrils, and mouth were full of grits, and something gritty was worrying my hair and skin. I took the gag out of my mouth; they had actually used a piece of cotton waste. Then I sat up, and I learned that I was in a small boat, which was all alone on what--literally to me--was a trackless ocean. My sensations on making this discovery were of the most exhilarating kind. I would have cried if I had thought it would do any good. As a matter of fact, I was consumed with rage; my one craving was to get that freckled man and that false woman by their throats, one hand at the throat of each, and knock, knock, knock their heads together; there would not have been much left of them if I had had a chance of knocking them together then. I would have just smashed them up like egg-shells.

I nursed my pleasant dreams of being revenged on them for quite a while. Then I untied my ankles, got on the one seat in the boat, and looked around. There was nothing to see, except water; and there was too much of that. I must have been lying for hours with that disgusting bag over my head, because it was clear, from the appearance of the heavens, that the dawn was on the point of breaking. It did break; I floated on, and on, and on. All of a sudden I saw something straight in front of me which caused me to get on to my feet and stare with all my might.

It was land--I believed it was land; I was sure it was land. It was ever so far away; but if I only had--then I realized that there was a pair of oars on board that boat. Whether that pretty couple had put them there on purpose, with the intention of giving me a chance to save my life, I have never known--but there they were. Presently I put them in the rowlocks, and I was pulling for dear life. I can row, but never before or since have I rowed as I rowed then. I sincerely hope I shall never have such a long pull again. I reached land, or I should not be telling the story. When I did I just lay down and felt as if I were as good as dead. If there had been so much as a ripple on the sea, I doubt if I should ever have gained the shore at all--my strength was utterly spent; but not only was the sea as calm as a mill-pond, but I have been told since that there is a strong current in that part of the world which sets towards the land. No doubt that helped to carry me in as much as my straining at the oars.

I want to get over this part of the story as fast as possible. I don’t like to think of it even now. After a while I became conscious that people were standing by and looking down at me. I never knew quite who they were, but I suppose they were Moors, because I had got ashore in Morocco. They could not speak English, and I could not speak what they spoke, so neither side understood a word of what the other side said; but I followed them, because a man took me by the wrist and made me go to a disreputable-looking sort of village, which I dare say an artist would have called picturesque; but I like my villages to be clean and wholesome, and that certainly was not. There I met an old man who had some English, of rather a curious kind; he must have acquired it in some strange company, because every third or fourth word was an oath; still, it was better than nothing. I knew, of course, that the yacht was making for Tangier, and I asked him how far that was. As far as I could gather from what he said, it was about six months’ journey; but I did not believe it was anything of the kind, because I knew that the yacht expected to get there early that day, and in that cockle-shell of a boat I could not possibly have gone very far out of its course.

As a matter of fact it was four days before I reached Tangier. The sight I must have presented when I got there! I walked nearly all the way. I had never had a wash, or been able to brush or comb my hair--considering when I was lowered into that small boat I was in full evening-dress. I had on a costume of sky-blue satin covered with chiffon, the corsage cut low, no sleeves, a pair of blue silk stockings to match, and the flimsiest of shoes. When you have got those details clearly in your mind, and remember that I had spent a night at sea, rowing in a small boat, and that afterwards I walked for four days on the roads of Morocco, without once coming within sight of soap or water, brush or comb, I don’t think I need say any more of what I looked like when I reached Tangier.

I created a sensation when I did get there; for that matter, I created a sensation all along the road. I was the centre of a highly amused mob of the inhabitants of the place, when, of all people in the world, who should I encounter but the proprietor of Ebenezer’s Grey-Blue Pills, his wife, his son, his two daughters, together with other passengers from the yacht which I had so unintentionally quitted. And they fell on me all at once, not with sympathy, but with accusations of robbery and theft.

We all adjourned to the house of the British Consul, and half the population of the town seemed to be waiting in the street without. There I was informed that jewels, and other valuables, belonging to John T. Stebbings, had been taken out of his cabin on the night I had gone, and every one took it for granted that they had gone with me. So there I was, charged with leaving that yacht of set purpose and intention, with no end of valuables belonging to other people.

Looking back, I find that I have omitted something; it comes back to my mind at this moment just as it did then. It is not very much--just a trifle; but one of those trifles which turn the scale.

As, on that eventful night, Miss Marianne Tracy looked round and beheld me, she was in the very act of saying something to her freckled friend. I only saw her lips form part of the sentence; how it began I do not know, and it never ended. The words I saw her lips form were only these:

“… the Villa Hortense, in the Street of the Fountain----”

In the excitement of the thrilling moment which immediately ensued I think I scarcely realized that those words had reached my brain--anyhow, I should not have known to what they referred. But in that room in the Consul’s house, confronted by my accusers, they came back to me. I even had some inkling of what they might mean.

I told my tale. They listened with an amazement which grew; then, when I had come nearly to an end, and I felt that I had made some sort of impression, I asked the Consul a question:

“Is there in this town a Street of the Fountain?”

He said there was; he ventured on a statement, eyeing me sharply.

“You have been here before--this is not your first visit to Tangier?”

I told him not only that it was, but that I hoped it would be my last. I explained the circumstances in which I had seen the words uttered. How he stared, and how they all stared, as if I were some wonderful creature! It is a continual source of amusement to me how many people think I am doing something wonderful when I am merely putting into practice the principles by the teaching of which I make my living.

“I understand,” I added, “that Miss Tracy left the yacht the night before last, to spend a day or two ashore. I think it possible that you will find she prefers to remain ashore when the yacht goes.” I put another question to the Consul: “Do you happen to know, sir, if in the Street of the Fountain there is a house called the Villa Hortense?”

“By repute I know it very well. It is a house which, at various times, has had some curious occupants--persons of whom somewhat queer tales have been told. I believe that at the present moment it is without a tenant.”

“I venture, in spite of your belief, sir, to express my belief that if Mr. John T. Stebbings would like to learn something about the jewels belonging to Mrs. Stebbings and the Misses Stebbings, he cannot do better than make inquiries at the Villa Hortense, in the Street of the Fountain.”

They all trooped off to that poetically named street; I tried to get it into their heads that that was not the most desirable way of making what ought to have been a discreet approach. Each was willing that some one else should stay behind, but was bent on going him or herself. So they all of them went together. Some one, I do not know who, had lent me an aboriginal sort of wrap which I believe was called a burnous; that covered the worst of me, but there was still enough of me visible to make me one of the most striking figures in that singular procession.

The Street of the Fountain proved to be very narrow, so the procession had to tail off, whether it wished to or not. From the outside the Villa Hortense seemed to be quite a good-sized house. While people were wondering how we were going to get in I turned the handle and opened the door. The door led directly into a room. As I entered I saw a feminine figure passing through a door which was on the other side. Although she looked quite different, I knew that she was Miss Marianne Tracy. As I made a dash at her she shut the door with a bang, I heard a key turned in the lock and bolts shot home. As the door was a solid construction, apparently six inches thick, my desire to get through it had to be postponed. Others had come in after me, and they were eyeing with surprise the contents of the room--which certainly were rather amazing. There were articles of clothing which had undoubtedly belonged to Miss Tracy, and what is known as a “transformation,” which had probably belonged to her too, to say nothing of some odds and ends of an extremely intimate kind. The great discovery was made by Mrs. Stebbings and her two daughters; they dashed forward with a chorused cry: “Father’s bag!”

There, on a sort of stool, was the bag which Mr. Stebbings had kept in his locker, and which had contained the most valuable possessions of the feminine part of the family. There were some of them left still--what the family seemed to regard as unconsidered trifles; the articles really worth having were there no more. They had probably gone with the lady who had locked and bolted--on the other side--that extremely solid door. While we were assimilating this interesting fact a person garbed as a sailor appeared in the doorway and informed us, at the top of his voice, that if we wanted to continue our yachting cruise we had better get on board at once, as the boat was on the point of starting.

There was a nice to-do. Every one seemed to be strongly of the opinion that the captain was an exceptionally unreasonable person; but, as no one wished to be left behind, a common inclination was shown to rush to the shore. As nobody was more eager to get on board than I was, for divers reasons, I kept well to the front. We reached the quay just as the ship’s boat was about to put off, and I was the first one in. They all came tumbling after me. We discussed the captain’s conduct on the way to the ship, and we kept on discussing it to the end of the voyage. He was tried by a sort of court-martial, no two members of which agreed.

Mr., Mrs., the Misses, and Master Stebbings were of opinion that the captain ought to have kept the ship at Tangier while search was made for that disreputable woman, and at least endeavoured to recover their valuable property. As the ship had stayed there already much longer than she ought to have done, the captain made it quite clear that his first duty was to the owners, and that if the Stebbings family had wished to remain they might have done so and come on by another ship. But as their remaining property was on board and they had only a few pounds on their persons, it was not strange that they had not seen their way to act on the captain’s suggestion. Mrs. Stebbings asked him pointedly if he thought she could live for a fortnight in the clothes she stood up in, and the young ladies hinted that he was not the kind of person they had taken him for. So the captain retired, and I should not be surprised if he bullied the crew. I believe efforts were made by wireless to ascertain the woman’s whereabouts and to regain the Stebbingses’ gems, and that directions were given to leave no stone unturned which should bring these things about. But, so far as I know, nothing ever came of what was done.

The yachting cruise went on, under a sort of blight. Everything seemed different without Miss Tracy and the Stebbingses’ gems. The numerous inquisitions which were held on me, and the myriad questions which I had to answer, caused me seriously to consider whether it would not be desirable to remain at one of the ports at which we touched and continue my journey later. But the truth was that I had had enough of yachting, and the one thing for which I craved was to have done with that pleasure trip and get back home. I did get back home--we all got back home--and I think that most of us parted from each other in the hope that we might never meet again.

This story is episodical, with an interval between each episode. There was another interval of about eighteen months, during which I managed to keep myself alive, though, for the most part, I was badly over-worked; and one afternoon I went to call upon a friend who was staying at the Hotel Metropole in town. I stayed in the lounge while she went to write some letters. Right on the other side was a party of Americans. They seemed to be so much amused by what they were talking about that I could not help watching them, and I saw one of them tell this story. He struck me as a man who had been in this world about sixty years, and who had lived them every one.

“Have I told you about Alexander King?”

He asked the question, and with one accord his listeners said that he had not; so he told them then.

“Last fall Alexander went on a pleasure cruise to the coast of Florida. On board there was a lady--I don’t mean that there weren’t other ladies on the ship, but she was the only one for Alexander. Alexander had had three wives already, and he told me himself that he thought enough was as good as a feast; but the sight of her made him think he’d try again. All the way there and back he made hay of that young female’s heart to such an extent that, when he got back to New York, nothing would suit him but that he should rush off to the first handy place, and make her the fourth Mrs. King. But she was not taking any; she was a modest creature, and wanted time to prepare her mind. So he gave her time, as little as she would let him give her, and he spent most of it in buying such articles as New York had to sell; so that when they had the wedding he had quite a nice collection to pour into the lap of his bride. They were going to Tennessee for the honeymoon, and they went down to the depot, and they boarded the train. And just before the train was going to start she remembered that she had forgotten something somewhere, and she caught up a bag which contained all he had worth having, as well as some trifles of her own, and she started off to get it. And she left Alexander alone in the train--and he’s been alone ever since. Yes, boys, he has. That train started with Alexander alone in it, without even his bag. She had recommended him, like a good and thoughtful wife, careful of her husband’s interest, to put all his cash into that bag, and everything he had worth taking; and he had acted on her advice, and now the bag was gone, and she with it. That’s the last he’s ever seen of either. Yes, boys, that’s a fact. What honeymoon he had he spent all alone, which didn’t amount to much; and, from what I have heard, it would seem that he has been spending most of the money he had left on telegraphing descriptions of the bag and the lady to every part of the world. He has met with no success so far, and I take it that his money will give out before he does. So he’s a widower once more.”

His hearers laughed, and I had to laugh--he had such a comical way of telling a story--but I laughed with rather a wry face. I had no doubt that Mrs. Everard Brookes, and Miss Marianne Tracy, and Mrs. Alexander King were one and the same person. The audacity of the creature was almost incredible! I believe I should have gone across to them and told them so, only just then my friend came up and insisted upon bearing me off without giving me a chance to explain.

A few days afterwards I was in Bond Street, when a beautifully attired lady came out of a shop, and stopped to stare at me. I could not believe my eyes--it was Marianne Tracy, though transformed into quite another being. Her coolness was almost supernatural.

“It is Miss Lee, isn’t it? I thought it was. I’m so glad to have met you.”

That was all she said, in the sweetest tone of voice. Then she got into a gorgeous motor-car, which I had been conscious had been standing at the kerb, and as she pulled the door to she leaned over and said:

“By the way, how did you enjoy that little trip to sea?”

Before I could answer the car was off. What was I to do? I could not run after it; it was lost in the traffic before I had got my wits about me. I could not give a description of the car--I had scarcely noticed it; I was not sure either of the shape or colour. That woman had slipped through my fingers, merely because her presence of mind was greater than mine. If I had only kept my head enough to take her by the throat in the middle of Bond Street!

A week afterwards I had a call from Mr. Everard Brookes. He began to talk about his wife--he still called her his wife. The man struck me as being more than half a lunatic. He told me that he had more than once thought of going into mourning. The very notion! I thought of what her feelings would have been if she had seen him in widower’s weeds. He said that he felt that in the first flush of his agitation he had misjudged her; he was sure that she had cared for him; he had had proofs of it. I wonder what they were. He was nearly convinced that she had been the victim of one of those tragedies of which one reads in the newspapers; she might have been run over by a motor-bus; he had a morbid feeling that he himself would one day be run over by a vehicle of that description. Something had happened to her, he believed; one day it would be made known what it was.

I hoped that it never would, for his sake. He was one of those men who--because nothing ever has happened to them--like to think that something has happened to them at last--something wonderful, altogether out of the common way; that they have been the victim of some supreme tragedy. I doubt if he would have made much of a husband, anyhow. He was actually happy under the delusion that some strange, mysterious fate had in some altogether incomprehensible way robbed him of what might have been his life’s bright star. His existence might have been so blissful had Destiny only stayed its hand. It is my belief that he endeavoured to make this clear to everybody he met after five minutes’ acquaintance; so that, if he lost his wife before she was really his, at least he had an object in life.

The next morning I met William B. Stebbings, the son of Ebenezer’s Grey-Blue Pills, and, as soon as he had made up his mind who I was, the very first words he said to me were:

“I say, Miss Lee, I’m going to be married--yes, I am; and I hope to see you there; you must have a card. It’s on Tuesday week.” Then, though we were out in the open street, he closed his left eye and winked. “Have you ever heard anything of Miss Tracy? She was a dandy of a girl, she was; and, between ourselves, I believe that she didn’t object to me. If it hadn’t been for that little upset, matters between us might have gone farther than---- Well, strictly between ourselves, I don’t mind telling you that she told me herself that she would like to be my wife; she meant it too. She was fond of me, that girl was. Pity she made such a mistake.”

I did not know to which mistake he alluded, and I did not ask him. I did not want to know. He was an extremely plain, clumsily built, stupid young man; and I was half inclined to wish that she had married him. Where women are concerned, men are the most amazing things. What all those men, of different ages, different tastes, different altogether, saw in her was beyond my comprehension. The proof that she had a fatal fascination for the male animal came to me in still stranger shape only a few days later.

I was standing in one of the Tube stations, when a decently dressed young man came up to me and took his cap off.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you Miss Lee? I don’t suppose you know who I am, but I remember you because of Miss Balfour.”

“Miss who?” I asked. I was quite certain I had never seen him before; he was almost a gentleman and quite nice-looking, about twenty-three or four.

“Miss Balfour spoke to you in Bond Street, now rather more than a fortnight since. You were passing when she came out of a shop and spoke to you, and then she got into the motor-car. I was the chauffeur. She told me afterwards who you were.”

“So she calls herself Miss Balfour now, does she?” A light was beginning to dawn on me. “I shall be very much obliged if you can tell me where Miss Balfour is to be found at the present moment.”

He pulled rather a long face.

“I wish I could; that is what I hoped you would be able to tell me.”

“No one is less likely to be able to tell you about the movements of the woman who, according to you, now calls herself Miss Balfour than I am. Are you no longer in her employ?”

He shifted his cap a little to one side and scratched his head. I thought what a rueful-looking object he was all at once.

“Well, it’s rather a long story. It’s like this.” He paused, as if to try back to the beginning. “I wasn’t exactly in her employ; the fact is, an uncle of mine left me a legacy, and I laid it out in buying a motor-car, meaning to hire it out to people who wanted one. It’s a first-rate car, and I wanted to get at people of better class. Miss Balfour hired it--first by the day, then by the week, and then by the month. We used to go off together for tours in the country, and”--he began to look sheepish--“she made herself very pleasant to me. Of course, she paid my expenses, and nothing would suit her but that we should take our meals together--late dinner and all that; and--well”--he looked more sheepish--“she began to make out that she had taken a liking to me, and, of course, I liked her; so then I gave her the motor-car.”

“You did what?” I almost shouted in that Tube station.

“You see, we were going to be married----”

“Oh, you were going to be married!”

“Of course; I knew she’d got lots of money, and that it would be a first-rate thing for me, and so I thought, there being only one thing I could give her worth having, that was the least I could give her, so I gave her the motor-car, thinking,” he quickly added, “that, as what was hers would be mine, it would make no difference, and that it would be as much mine as ever; only the mischief was I gave it her before witnesses; and that very same night, if she didn’t get up in the middle of the night, and go down to the garage, and take the car out, and drive off with it, and I’ve seen nothing of either of them since.”

This was such an astounding story that if it had not been for the sincere air of depression which marked the man I should have thought that he was having a joke at my expense; but he was serious enough, as he had good reason to be.

“It was no use my going after her, even if I had known where she was, because, of course, she hadn’t stolen the motor-car, seeing that I had given it to her in the presence of witnesses--and that’s how it was.”

“Do you mean to say you’ve lost your motor-car?”

“It looks as if I had. I did hear by a sort of side-wind that she’s taken it to France, but, seeing that it’s hers, I don’t see what I can do to her if she has. She’s had me fairly. It was one of the best motor-cars that money could buy; I didn’t grudge anything in the way of fittings.”

He sighed. My train came up, and I left the youth lamenting. He was only another example of what absolute idiots all sorts and conditions of men, old and young, can make themselves over a woman.

It was not very long afterwards that a letter reached me which bore the Paris post-mark. As a specimen of--I will call it courage--I give it verbatim. There was no date and there was no address.

“My dear Miss Lee--may I call you Judith?…”

It was at this point that I realized that the letter was from that woman. Might she call me Judith! I read on--with my teeth set pretty close together.

“When I saw you the other day in Regent Street--I don’t know if you saw me; I was in a motor-car and you were walking--quite a wave of emotion passed over me. It was so sweet to see again one of whom one has such sunny memories. And you were looking so well; a little older, perhaps, but a few years more or less would make no difference to your appearance. I should have liked to stop my motor-car and begged you to have a cup of tea. I cannot help sending you just a line to say so, if only to recall to your recollection one who I hope you look upon as an old friend.

“A great change is about to take place in my life. I am shortly to be married--to a Russian merchant of immense wealth. One has to be married some time. I wonder if you will ever be? There are men who will marry anything--who knows?

“I had no idea until the other day that you were the famous Judith Lee. It was a surprise. I had heard so much about you--about how wise and clever and wonderful you were. You are not the least like what I expected. And yet how beautiful it must be to be able to read people’s thoughts, even the secrets of their hearts, as I am told you can. Who would have thought it? I shall look forward to meeting you again some day, in order that you may teach me some of the strange magic--I am bound to call it magic--of which you are such a mistress. You will find me an apt pupil; don’t you think you will?

“You must be able to do a great deal of good in the world with such a gift as yours. I love doing good--don’t you? It must be so nice to detect an improper person directly you see one. Your friendship for me was almost a certificate of character. If only it had not been so brief--but the night was fine, and the boat was handy, and we did not tie you very tight.--Your affectionate friend, Marianne Tracy.

“Pray remember me to the gentleman whose name you once mentioned to me--Mr. Everard Brookes. Is he married?”

The audacity of the woman in writing to me at all! And such a letter, with such innuendoes! I could hardly contain myself till I got to the end. For quite two days after I had received that effusion I could hardly bring myself to speak civilly to a single person I came across. And even now sometimes I tingle all over when I think of it--and that was ages ago, and I have never heard of nor seen the woman since.