Chapter IV: Thyra Makes an Admission

That same afternoon Dick Jervoise had stood for a considerable time watching at the long window of his sitting-room in that great block of red-brick flats at Castelnau, on the Barnes side of Hammersmith Bridge.

The view across the wide reservoirs and up the Thames beyond old-world Chiswick and its Mall was one of the most extensive and picturesque in the immediate environs of London. His were cosy quarters. He had chosen them for two reasons; first to be near Owen, whose surgery was in Bridge Avenue, just over the long suspension bridge, and second because it was an open spot, with plenty of light and fresh air both back and front. His rooms were not extensive, but quite sufficient for the simple wants of a bachelor. The sitting-room was a square, good-sized apartment papered a dark red, with well-filled book-cases, a big, old-fashioned sideboard, whereon were two or three pieces of antique silver, and in a corner a large, roll-top writing-desk with the telephone instrument upon it.

On the table in the centre stood a big epergne of sweet-smelling mimosa, bringing with it a fragrance from the Riviera, and before the bright fire stood two inviting armchairs. That room, as were also the dining-room and the bedroom, was the very acme of bachelor comfort, for he had furnished them with considerable taste in order to make cosy quarters for himself when in London.

One room beyond the kitchen was, indeed, piled with battered travelling cases and the impedimenta he sometimes used on his longer expeditions, the articles ranging from a tent to a luggage label.

The titles of the books lining that well-warmed, little den were sufficient index to the character of its owner. They were mostly works on archæology or folk-lore, and many of them, being extremely rare, he had purchased at high prices.

Standing at the long French window which opened upon a narrow balcony, where a row of variegated laurels flourished in long boxes, he stood eagerly watching every vehicle as it crossed the bridge from the Hammersmith side.

His face was pale and serious, and it was apparent that his nerves were at their highest tension.

Time after time he glanced back anxiously at the Chippendale clock upon the mantelshelf, and then stood breathlessly waiting.

The roadway below was one of the chief highways out of the metropolis, and led to Wimbledon, Richmond, Kingston-on-Thames, and the open country beyond. Hence, as he watched, hundreds of motor cars and motor ’buses whirred along over the bridge, and away along the broad road towards Barnes Common and Mortlake.

Slowly the light faded. Already the lamps on the great bridge had begun to glimmer, and lights were shining on the river bank across at Chiswick.

Suddenly a taxicab slowed up after it had crossed the bridge, and came quietly towards the kerb. Dick caught sight of a face within, and next instant dashed down the stairs.

In the entrance he grasped the hand of the visitor he had been so anxiously awaiting.

It was Thyra.

Together they ascended to the second floor, and he ushered her into his sitting-room. She entered the flat timidly, for was not her visit a clandestine one!

Within, he helped her off with her fur coat and boa, and pulled one of the big armchairs before the fire, saying:

“I began to fear that you could not get away, or that you didn’t receive my message.”

“I was compelled to wait until my father went out. He had an appointment with somebody.”

“With whom?”

“He did not tell me. As soon as he had gone I slipped out, hailed a cab, and gave the driver your address. But oh! how utterly bewildering is your great London! I have driven miles and miles. I had no idea that London was so huge.”

He smiled at her as, standing with his back to the fire, he gazed upon her, noting how extremely handsome she was. Her neat mourning enhanced her pale beauty, yet as she raised her great grey eyes to his, he saw them shadowed, and full of weariness.

He had not seen her since that grey afternoon when, four days after the tragedy, he had called upon her in Christiania to wish her adieu. They had written to each other several times until she had announced her impending arrival in London, and he had sent her that urgent message to come and see him.

“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he stammered, after a painful pause.

“And I, too, have been longing to see you, Mr. Jervoise,” she said. “There were things I wished to speak about which I dare not write in letters.” And instinctively she glanced at the closed door.

“You need have no fear,” he assured her. “My man is out, and we are entirely alone.”

She glanced round the room with her great wide-open eyes, so full of childish innocence. Everything English was so new to her, everything interested or astonished her. She had regarded Christiania, with real trees in its streets, as a terrestrial paradise, but London, with its great parks, miles of streets, and bustling millions, was assuredly a universe in itself.

“Nobody must know that we have met,” she said in an anxious tone. “Remember our secret!”

“Your secret is entirely safe with me, Thyra—if I may be permitted to call you by your Christian name,” he answered in a deep, earnest voice.

“I know it is! I feel I can trust in you, Mr. Jervoise. You are indeed my friend.”

“Yes. I am your friend,” he repeated, looking straight into those eyes, so wonderfully clear and yet wearing that strange, hunted look that he had never before seen in them.

“Nobody suspects?” she asked the next moment in a hoarse whisper, bending forward in her chair towards him.

“Nobody. Our secret is quite safe.”

She stirred, and rearranged her skirts, his words having reassured her.

London! When, three days ago, she had landed at Tilbury with her father from Gothenburg, she had been filled with childish joy at the mere thought that London was near. London! The long-dreamed-of city of wonders, the world’s metropolis, the home of all splendours, all delights—London, the home of Richard Jervoise.

She had, however, dreaded that meeting. She knew that to see him again was imperative, yet she anticipated the encounter with fear and misgiving—nay, with something akin to horror. Nevertheless, on receipt of his dreaded demand, she had braced herself up, and now faced the ordeal unflinchingly.

As Dick Jervoise stood still looking into those splendid eyes, he read what was passing in her mind.

“Thyra!” he said slowly, in a very low, impressive voice. “You are apprehensive—far too apprehensive. You are unnerved, I fear. Pray calm yourself, or your very attitude may excite suspicion.”

“Ah!” she cried, putting her gloved hands out before her. “How can I act otherwise? How can I remain calm with this terrible torture of conscience upon my mind?”

And she rose from her chair, tall and willowy, and stood before him, her fair head bowed.

“Come,” he said, placing his hand upon her slim shoulder tenderly, “you must learn to conceal all these fears of yours if you would hide our secret from the world.”

“But somehow—well, somehow I cannot!” she declared wildly, her face now pale and drawn. “Heaven knows what a struggle I constantly have with my own heart—my own conscience!”

“No, no!” he said, firmly yet gently. “Dismiss all that from your mind. Nobody is aware of our meeting in Christiania on that fateful afternoon, and——”

“Ah! If I had only had the courage to refuse to keep that appointment with you! It was not right—it was unjust—unjust to Paul.”

“No,” he said quite frankly. “What I did was entirely in your interests, Thyra. You have already admitted that. Our secret is safe—therefore why need we trouble further?”

“I had no proof of what you told me,” she protested quickly. “It was a remarkable story, but you could not bring the slightest evidence to substantiate a single word of it.”

“You will have ample proof in due course,” he said. “I promise you that.”

“Somehow you never seem to realise our mutual danger,” she exclaimed. “I am a woman, and perhaps I can see further ahead than you. Has it never struck you that your friend Dr. Odd may have suspected our secret meeting on that afternoon?”

“And, pray, what if he does? The suspicion cannot be substantiated. I have already taken very good care of that. The police are still making inquiries,” he added with a grim smile. “They arrested some poor devil of a waiter the other day, I hear, and had to release him after a few hours’ detention.”

“You laugh!” she cried, her eyes flashing in quick protest. “_You!_”

“I laugh because you and I know he is innocent,” was his brief yet indefinite answer. “But,” he added, “tell me one thing, Thyra. Did Paul ever mention to you the name of a friend of his called Nicholas Bourtzeff?”

“Bourtzeff? No. I never heard him mention the name,” she responded, shaking her head.

“And he never mentioned any friend of his living in London—at that address in Keppel Street, Bloomsbury, which he telegraphed to your father?”

“Never. I had not the slightest idea of his intention of coming to London, or that he possessed any friend here.”

Dick Jervoise smiled within himself when he recollected Alza’s dogged tenaciousness to the clue which she believed she had discovered. When the fire of vengeance once burns in a woman’s heart, it is indeed unquenchable.

It had grown quite dark now, and the room was only illuminated by the uncertain flicker of the fire.

“Are you positive that your friend, the doctor, is still unsuspicious?” she asked him in a low, strained voice at last.

“Of course. Whatever causes you such ridiculous apprehension?”

“Because—well, because I am not convinced yet that our secret is absolutely safe,” was her reply. “Suppose the truth were ever discovered, the truth of what occurred that evening? Where should we both be? You remember your words!”

The man standing with her against the mantelshelf bit his lips, but he remained silent.

The shadow of a guilty secret was upon his brow.

He held his breath, and the hand that sought hers trembled.