Chapter XXVII: The Steps of the Stranger

We alighted at York, with just sufficient time to spare to allow us to catch the up dining-car express from Edinburgh to London.

As he got out of the compartment Stonor glanced at his watch and looked up and down the platform as though in search of someone. The passengers for London, urged on by the porters, rushed up to the further end of the platform. There the London express was waiting; but not so Stonor, for he turned into the Station Hotel quite leisurely after leaving his bag in charge of a porter.

To follow him there was too risky. Therefore I left the station by passing through the booking-office, and entered the hotel from the street a few minutes later.

I found him seated at one of the small tables in the hall, ordering a whisky and soda. It was evident that on the way from Scarborough he had changed his mind as regards his destination, and was now awaiting another train going in an opposite direction.

For half an hour he idled, smoking many cigarettes; then at last he rose and went out again upon the platform and bought another ticket.

Passing across the bridge to the other side of the huge station he entered a train, where the collector quickly clipped the ticket. From the official I learned the destination to be Manchester, and instantly rushed and bought a third-class ticket for that city.

Hardly had I entered the train when it moved slowly out of the station, and from that time till eleven o'clock that night, when I alighted again, the hours passed uneventfully.

As soon as I fixed his destination I intended to wire to Whitlock, but up to the present he appeared to be endeavouring to cover his tracks.

He went to the Midland Grand Hotel, that place which is always so full of bustle and movement, but did not engage a room. On the contrary he had some supper, smoked for an hour in the lounge, chatted to two men with whom he was apparently well acquainted, and at three o'clock next morning left Manchester again, with a ticket for Peterborough. Soon after seven we were at the latter station and he got out, still in entire ignorance that he was being followed. His appearance was now considerably altered, I noticed, for during the journey down from Manchester he had shaved off his moustache, and appeared to have deep lines upon his countenance that I had not hitherto noticed.

That he was an adept in effacing himself was shown by this. Indeed, he had changed his clothes during the journey, and when he stepped from his first-class compartment I confess that, at first, I did not recognise him, for he presented the appearance of being at least twenty years older.

In the booking-office he purchased still another ticket, and from the telegraph-office despatched a wire. As regards the latter, not being a detective, I could not ascertain its address, but the ticket I found was to Cromer, on the Norfolk coast.

There was nearly an hour to wait for the train; therefore he sauntered across to the Great Northern Hotel for breakfast, while I took mine at the refreshment-bar of the station.

My one great fear was lest he might see and recognise me. Up to the present I had succeeded in passing unnoticed. Indeed, I had not shown myself more than absolutely necessary, and flattered myself that my efforts at surveillance had, up to the present, been crowned with success. Why was this man going to Cromer? I wondered. It was certainly not a port from which he might get away to the Continent. Had he been going to Yarmouth or Lowestoft I should have suspected his intention was to get away on board a fishing smack to the Dutch coast.

Again, what object had he in taking that flying visit to Manchester? It was true that in the Winter Garden he had met two well-dressed men with whom he had held a long conversation, evidently upon some matter of importance, for all three had spoken very seriously together.

But I was not at all sure that he had gone to Manchester to meet those men, for he seemed to discover them quite casually. The fact of taking a ticket to King's Cross from Scarborough showed his intention to mislead anyone watching or making inquiries regarding him, and he was now bound for Cromer, where, perhaps, he intended to lie low for the present.

The journey from Peterborough to Cromer is a rather slow and tiresome one, but by noon Stonor was comfortably settled in the Hôtel de Paris, which, standing on the cliff above the pier, commands a good view of the town and the country in the vicinity. The hotel was not large, therefore I decided not to risk anything by putting up there. So I took a room in another and less pretentious hotel behind the church, but still kept a vigilant watch upon all the man's actions.

At the Paris I found later that afternoon that he had given the name of Ridgman and his address at Stockton-on-Tees. He evidently meant to remain there at least for another day; therefore I succeeded, after an hour of patient trial, in getting on to Whitlock by telephone to his own house.

When I told my friend where I was he gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise, and when I explained where Stonor was, and the name under which he was living, he said--

"You remain where you are, Keene. I've made it all right at the _Herald_ office. I'll leave by the seven o'clock from King's Cross, and bring down a man with me. I expect I'll be with you by midnight. What's your address?"

I told him, and he wrote it down.

"Right you are. Be watchful. He's a wary bird, so mind you're not spotted. We've found out a bit more. Kennedy's been busy."

"What further do you know?"

"I'll tell you when we meet. I never care about telling tales over the 'phone," he laughed. "Good-bye," and he rang off.

I idled about quaint, old-world Cromer the whole afternoon, but saw nothing further of the fugitive. In the square around the church, which is the natural centre of the place, I whiled away the time looking into the several shop-windows, not daring to pass either the front or the back of the Hôtel de Paris lest I should attract his attention unduly.

With the blaze of the sundown landward, a bright, blood-red glare shedding over the grey North Sea, I descended the cliff to the esplanade and sat for a long time near the pier lost in my own bitter reflections. One thought, one sad memory arose within me always: that of my sweet-faced love now lost to me.

Kennedy had discovered some further facts! What could they be? I was impatient for Whitlock's return, to learn the latest phase of this complicated and astounding affair. So many people seemed to be in some way or other implicated in that midnight tragedy at Barnes that I failed to grasp any other clue than the one we were now so actively following.

Whitlock, however, seemed to be directing inquiries in various other directions, and also appeared to entertain a strong suspicion of the girl I loved. He was prejudiced against her--prejudiced by something that had been told him. His very words betrayed what was at the back of his active mind. The whole problem was an incomprehensible one, yet our visit to Scarborough had certainly been fruitful. We at least now knew the name of the dead girl, Louise Lorimer, and it was her past that Kennedy and Whitlock were now engaged in tracing. The past of a murdered person will generally show the motive of the crime, and point to the identity of the assassin.

The grey waves, tipped with the crimson light of the dying day, slowly lapped the shingly beach. What, I wondered, would be the end of it all? What had Kennedy discovered?

Dozens of times I reflected whether it would be judicious to reveal to Whitlock the secret of my love for Daisy--whether knowledge of it would further our inquiries. But I always decided against such a course. She had, because of that man Drayton, forsaken me. Therefore I would conceal my own heavy burden of sorrow.

I did not blame her entirely. My enemy was the man who had uttered some vile lies concerning me.

Why was she so antagonistic towards Julian Little? Why, indeed, had Whitlock's attitude been so curious on that evening when he had called at Gray's Inn and I had introduced them? I often reflected upon that incident, and the more I did so the more puzzling it became.

Daisy's hard words at parting rang ever in my ears. Should I ever see her again save behind the footlights, in that environment of tinsel and pasteboard which seemed always so ill-suited to her sweet and modest demeanour? Daisy Marvin, the idol of audiences at the Oxford, the Pavilion, the Holborn Empire, and many of the outlying "halls," became gay and reckless when the curtain rang up for her "turn," but the instant she came off she was the same quiet-mannered, sweet-faced, charming girl that I knew so intimately, and who I had vainly believed would be mine for ever.

Her pretty face, smart figure, musical voice, and reckless dancing had already endeared her to half London, and she had only recently had tempting offers to go to New York and Chicago. But Mrs Marvin would not hear of it, therefore a three-year contract with the Tivoli had been entered into instead, and by that she could with justification call herself a "star" of her profession.

Most variety artistes, as well as the ladies in musical comedy who call themselves actresses, have a male admirer lurking somewhere. As far as Daisy Marvin was concerned I had foolishly imagined myself alone, until the discovery of that man with whom she had visited the Gambrinus and afterwards gone to Barnes--the man Francis Drayton.

The last rays of the blazing afterglow had faded and the sea had grown cold, grey, and mysterious. A chill wind had sprung up with the close of the day, therefore I rose and walked slowly to the end of the promenade, and afterwards reascended the cliff to the town.

Few people were about, for it was the dinner-hour of the visitors. Indeed, from where I had been walking I had heard the gong of the Hôtel de Paris just above, and it reminded me that I myself had hardly touched food that day. I had existed in such a whirl of excitement that I had forgotten all about luncheon.

While walking to my hotel across the square, in which stands the old square-towered church--a prominent landmark to mariners in the North Sea--I saw before me a familiar figure in a dark tweed suit. It was Stonor. He had changed both clothes and hat. Instead of a black bowler he wore a dark-brown soft felt, and carried in his hand a light cane. During my absence on the promenade below he seemed to have purchased a new wardrobe and had got into it.

Undetected by him, I followed and saw him cross to the post-office. Peering within, as I passed, I saw that he was writing a telegram. I looked at my watch and noted that the hour was 7.11. When Whitlock came I would report this, and no doubt he would go to the postmaster and obtain sight of the message.

After despatching it, he posted two letters which he took from his pocket, and then retraced his steps leisurely to the hotel. It was evident that he was not yet contemplating another such a journey as he had just accomplished; therefore, I went at once to my dinner, having first ascertained that Whitlock was due to arrive at 11.39.

And I awaited that hour with all impatience.