Chapter XX: The Photographer Tells His Story

A quarter of an hour later we alighted in Bond Street and entered the photographer's in question. The young lady called down the manager--a tall, slim young man, with fuzzy hair trimmed to look artistic, and a big black flowing cravat.

Whitlock briefly explained that he was an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department and was engaged upon an important case, though he did not refer to its nature.

"I have here," he went on, "a photograph which has been discovered. I would be glad if you will kindly let me know under what circumstances it was taken by you, and, further--what is perhaps more important--the name of the original."

The young man in frock-coat looked at the pencilled reference number, and answered--

"I don't think that will be very difficult. If you don't mind waiting a few minutes I'll look it up."

So while he disappeared to consult his books we made a tour of the place, inspecting the various specimens of poses, styles, enlargements and miniatures displayed for the attraction of the women who come there in their best frocks to have their counterfeit presentments transferred to paper.

A photographer's shop is always amusing. The various expressions upon the faces of the sitters--the straight, demure look upon the countenance of the _débutante_, the saucy laugh of the professional actress, the self-satisfied smirk upon the matronly mother, and the seductive grin upon the hag of sixty trying to look sixteen--always afford the philosopher food for reflection. Many women, indeed, owe much to their photographer. A first-class artist can "flatter" an ugly woman till she peers out at you a perfect beauty. Actresses know that, and never fail to take advantage of it.

The young man in frock-coat returned in about five minutes, carrying a big and rather shabby ledger, saying--

"I see from the entry that the picture was taken in September last year. The sitter came with a gentleman who apparently gave the name of Frederick Stonor, and his address Kazan House, South Cliff, Scarborough. The dozen sepia prints were paid for at the time, and were sent by post to Scarborough seven days later."

"Then the lady's name was not given?" Whitlock remarked disappointedly.

"No. Sometimes when a gentleman pays for the prints the lady's name is not given," the young man said, smiling. "It was so in this case."

He was, no doubt, wondering why Scotland Yard was taking such an unusual interest in the lady in question.

"Who took the picture?"

"I did myself," was the reply. "I recollect the lady quite well."

"And the man?"

"He was stout and middle-aged. I quite remember remarking within myself that the pair did not seem to be on very good terms."

At this Whitlock pricked up his ears.

"What caused you to suspect this?"

"From her inert, careless manner she seemed as though she were entirely under his influence, and did his bidding under compulsion. I was much struck by this, because when I posed her before the camera she moved mechanically, and sighed as though there rested upon her a great weight of sorrow."

"She struck you as a lady or--or a business girl?"

"A lady--most decidedly. She spoke as one."

"And the man Stonor?"

"He was in a lower station, evidently, than herself. Rather overdressed, I thought. He wore a silk hat and frock-coat, but was not at all at home in them."

"You could recognise him again?"

"Anywhere. He had coarse features and fat hands."

"She had no wedding ring?" asked the inspector.

"She wore gloves."

"Then you have no idea of her name?"

"He called her some pet name, but it was a foreign one, which I could not distinctly catch. What, however, riveted the sitting in question upon my mind was her utter disregard for everything--the state of her hair, her dress, pose, style of portrait--everything. It seemed as though he had compelled her to come and have her picture taken. Besides, there was another fact which was curious."

"And what was that?" inquired my friend, eagerly.

"Well, about a month ago a tall, consumptive-looking man, rather shabbily dressed, brought in the number of this same photograph and asked me to make a print, saying that he was prepared to pay for it. I, of course, refused. We never sell copies of ladies' portraits without the sitter's permission, or unless it is our copyright."

"Did he say why he wanted one?"

"He explained that the lady had died, and that he wished for a photograph as souvenir."

"And that was a month ago?" my companion exclaimed.

"Yes."

Whitlock and I exchanged glances. Again was an event declared to have taken place before it had really happened!

"What kind of person was he--young or old?"

"About thirty, sandy-haired and cadaverous-looking. When he entered here I took him to be a cadger, so shabby were his clothes; yet he offered me half a guinea for a print."

"Curious."

"Yes; I thought so at the time. His appearance recalled the incident of the taking of the portrait to my memory. And now, when you come from Scotland Yard, it makes the affair quite mysterious. Do you suspect her? Has she done anything wrong?" he inquired, itching to know the real reason of the inquiries.

"Oh, no, not in the least," Whitlock declared. "I am simply making some inquiries into the friends of certain persons--confidential inquiries. You well understand. I would willingly tell you the whole matter, but, at present, any mention of it might defeat the ends of justice."

"Of course," said the young man, nodding his head slowly, "I quite understand. I would help you further if it lay in my power. But I, unfortunately, have no knowledge of the young lady's name. And now, I suppose, she is dead. Is that so?"

"Yes, she is dead," answered Whitlock, telling the truth.

"If you found the man at Scarborough, then you might learn her name."

"Yes. I think that must be the direction of our next inquiries," my companion said, and, thanking the photographer's manager, we went out together into the life and movement of Bond Street.

"It's a pity we can't establish the poor girl's identity," he said, when we were outside. Then, glancing at his watch, he remarked that he was due at Scotland Yard.

"And what about Scarborough?" I inquired. "If you are going down I'd like to come with you."

"With pleasure. I shall go to-night. There's a train from King's Cross a little after six which would land us down there before midnight. There's a restaurant-car. Look up the exact time in the 'A B C,' and meet me at the station. Good-bye for the present."

And next moment he was in a hansom going towards Piccadilly.

I ran down to the office, lunched at the Savage, and punctually at the hour appointed by Daisy approached the well-known seat in Kensington Gardens which had so often been our trysting-place.

Entering from Kensington Gore by Queen's Gate, I turned to the right and afterwards to the left, behind the Albert Memorial. There is a narrow and unfrequented path which leads out into the wider way towards the Serpentine, and as I walked, for it yet wanted five minutes to four, the sky was grey and the chill wind caused a faint rustle in the leaves above, precursory of rain. The afternoon was a dull, dispiriting one, in keeping with my own feeling of insecurity and mystery.

There was no one in the vicinity, therefore I cast myself upon the seat, lit a cigarette, and waited. Behind me sounded the distant whirr of the motor 'buses and the warning horns of private cars. Before me, away beyond the limits of the gardens, arose the low roar of the traffic in Bayswater.

A dilatory, grey-cloaked nursemaid wheeling a perambulator passed me by, but there was no other sign of life upon that quiet, unfrequented path so near the fevered heart of London. In these vibrating days of noise, hustle, and the motor 'bus, the quiet spots in our Metropolis are indeed few; but, fortunately, Kensington Gardens still retains its old-world rural charm, the ancient trees still bud and blossom and spread their shade, and the early spring flowers still put forth their carpet of colour and fade again ere they become soiled by the smuts of the myriad chimneys.

Around me, as I sat beneath the huge beech, the leaves, were already beginning to flutter lightly to the ground as each windy gust caused the great boughs to wave. The murky sky was slowly darkening, and all around seemed sad and gloomy--that dull greyness that is, alas! too often apparent at the close of the London day.

Reflecting deeply as I sat there, I suddenly saw my well-beloved appear round the bend in the path, and rose quickly to meet her. She looked neat in a pale brown gown trimmed with white, a black hat, and a veil which only served to heighten her sweet beauty. Her attire never possessed that note of loudness usually inseparable from the variety artiste, but, on the contrary, there was an air of modesty and a display of taste which made her own natural refinement apparent. Though on the stage she possessed all the wild abandon of the French _chanteuse_, yet in private life she was quiet and retiring and unassuming.

"Daisy!" I cried, gladly taking her little, white gloved hand.

"Victor! I'm so glad you were able to meet me," she said. Her voice seemed unusual. In an instant I recollected all those extraordinary events of the past night.

In her dark eyes was a look which puzzled me, a hard glance which I had never seen there before. What could it mean?

"You know, dearest," I said, "that when in London I always put everything aside in order to be with you for a few moments--don't you?"

"Yes; I suppose you do," was her rather inert response, as we walked to the seat.

As we sat together I took her hand and raised it reverently to my lips. Our eyes met in silence. Neither of us spoke.

Why did she take the precaution to meet me in secret when she went with that young, well-dressed clubman openly to the Gambrinus, and travelled about with him in cabs after midnight?

I was the first to speak.

"I'm sorry, dearest, I couldn't come to see you do your turn last night, but I was busy. I had to be down at the office."

"Perhaps it was as well," she said. "Annie may grow suspicious if she sees you about too often." Her reply was certainly a cold one. She, of course, never dreamed that I had been watching all her movements.

"But why should we fear Annie?" I protested. "My love for you, my darling, is surely an honourable one. Your father knows me well, and----"

"And he would never let us marry, I'm afraid, Victor," she interrupted.

"Why?"

"Because----" and then she hesitated. It seemed to be on the tip of her tongue to tell me something, but on reflection she appeared to be resolved to remain silent.

"Because--well, for what reason?" I asked, looking straight into her beautiful eyes through the veil.

But her perfect countenance was sphinx-like.

"I--I don't exactly know," she faltered, in a voice which told me that she was not speaking the truth.

"He has said something about me--something to my detriment--eh? Come, tell me the truth, Daisy," I urged in all seriousness.

"He admires you in your profession, Victor, but I have reason for anticipating that he would never consent to my marriage with you."

"Why?"

"Because he is always declaring that journalism is a profession far too precarious. A doctor or a barrister gains experience by age and progresses in prosperity; but a journalist, he says, as he grows older goes down the ladder. Only young men are wanted nowadays, and the elder Pressmen are cast aside as sucked oranges."

"By some papers only. There are, happily, other honourable journals which still retain the men who have been faithful in a life-long service," I said.

"Yes, the old-fashioned and therefore decaying papers," was her answer. "No. Your profession is like my own. When we are young we are popular, but with the first sign of age we are no longer wanted. In both Press and Stage life youth and energy are required."

"And your father has been saying these things--eh?" I asked. "Then he suspects, perhaps?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I believe he does," she replied, glancing again into my eyes. "Do you remember when you came to our house the other Sunday evening?"

"Yes. But I am sure I took no undue notice of you," I declared.

"It was injudicious," she said. "You should have declined his invitation, for how could we be in the same room without unconsciously betraying our affection? As it was, my father chaffed me after you had left."

"What did he say?" I asked anxiously.

"He told me that he was certain you were fond of me, and warned me to have nothing whatever to do with you."

"Why?"

"He pointed out that with my popularity and my talent, as he calls it, I could make a rich marriage."

"Rich marriage!" I cried. "Do you think, my darling, that wealth will buy you domestic happiness? Have you not, among your own friends, girls who have married for money--and have soon repented very bitterly? I have."

"I know! I know!" she exclaimed quickly. "But--well--I ought not to have told you what I have, Victor. It will cause you to be bad friends with my father."

"Not at all. I'm no longer on the _Evening Herald_, and shall in future see but little of him. Besides, if I know that you still love me, Daisy, why need I care for his attempt to prejudice me in your eyes?"

Her eyes were downcast. She was thoughtfully tracing a line upon the gravel with the ferrule of her umbrella.

She made no response.

"Speak!" I said, taking her hand in mine. "Tell me, darling, whether you really do love me still, or--or whether----"

I could not conclude the sentence, for the hateful vision of that man in black overcoat and crush-hat--the man suspected to be Francis Drayton!--arose before my eyes.

I felt her hand trembling in mine. She dare not raise her eyes.

For some moments I remained, still holding her hand in mine, and trying to fathom her thoughts. I loved her with a pure and passionate affection; my heart, my very soul, was hers. And yet the discovery of the previous night had frozen my very being.

Slowly, yet firmly, she withdrew her hand from mine, her breast heaving and falling. I saw in her attitude an intention to evade my question.

"Will you not tell me the truth, Daisy?" I asked in a low, earnest voice. "If you love another, why not acknowledge it?"

At last she found tongue, and, turning to me as she braced herself for an effort, she said--

"Before I answer your questions, Victor, first answer one which I have come here to-day to put to you. Answer 'Yes' or 'No.'"

"Well," I said, amazed at the extraordinary demeanour of the woman to whom I was so utterly devoted; "I am all attention. What is your question?"

Again there was silence.

At last she spoke, very slowly and distinctly.

And her words revealed to me a ghastly truth.