Inspector Furnival's Most Mysterious Cases. Annie Haynes

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СКАЧАТЬ stood aside politely, then there was a sudden exclamation.

      "Why, it is Judy! Judy, by all that is delightful! The very last person I expected to meet here."

      It was a voice she had prayed she might never hear again on earth. The sound of it brought her to a sudden standstill. The man was blocking the way with outstretched hands—a man with a fair bronzed face, with smiling blue eyes and white teeth that gleamed beneath his drooping moustache.

      "This is a surprise, Judy—a pleasant surprise!" he went on. "I had no idea that you and Cyril had made it up."

      Judith's tortured eyes stared straight at him, her cold hand lay in his for an instant. Oh, why had she waited? she asked herself passionately; why had she not got away before this man,—who stood for so much that was evil in the past—saw and recognized her?

      He did not seem to heed her silence; he turned and walked down the stairs.

      "Cyril is looking fit, isn't he?" he said easily. "I half thought of going to him to-night, but I don't know whether I shall have time; as a matter of fact I have some business with another man in the next flat."

      Judith made some inaudible reply. His bold, overfamiliar manner did not alter.

      "You will have a taxi," he said as they reached the vestibule.

      But Judith shook her head. "I am going by the Tube. Good-bye."

      He laughed. "At any rate you must let me see you safely in for old times' sake."

      "Oh, no, no!" Judith put out her hands. "You must not. Don't you see that I can't bear it; I must be alone."

      The insolent laughter in the man's blue eyes deepened. "I see that you are not disposed to give your old friends a welcome, Judy," he said, mock reproach in his tone. "And there is so much I want to know. I want to hear all you have been doing since our last meeting. And how Cyril found you. Poor fellow, he has been half distracted to hear nothing of you for so long."

      "He met me," Judith answered vaguely. "Goodbye."

      "It is not good-bye," he assured her lightly. "I shall only say au revoir, Judy. We shall meet again."

      Judith hurried away; some instinct made her look back as she reached the bottom of the steps. He was standing just as she had left him, but was it her fancy or was it some effect of the flickering light? It seemed to her that his face was distorted by a mocking, evil smile. With an inaudible sound of terror she turned and disappeared among the crowd.

      As she hurried past the end of the street a man standing in a doorway opposite drew farther back in the shadow, then came out and turned after her. But Judith had not glanced at him. All her mind was intent on getting to the station at the earliest possible moment; the man following had some ado to keep up with her hurrying footsteps.

      Sitting in the crowded carriage of the Tube, she clasped her hands together beneath her cloak. Oh, it was hard, terribly hard, she told herself passionately, that these two men should come into her life again. She had thought herself so safe, she had never dreamed that the dead past would rise again.

      Then her mind went back shudderingly to that flat at Abbey Court and its ghastly secret. Who was it who had stolen in and shot Cyril Stanmore? Whose breathing was it she heard as she waited there in the darkness?

      The dead man had made many enemies, she knew that some of them must have stolen in and taken this terrible revenge.

      She let herself into the house in Grosvenor Square with the latch-key that she had taken care to provide herself with, and was conscious of a passing throb of surprise at finding none of the menservants in the hall.

      She went into her room, where everything looked as she had left it. Evidently her absence had not been discovered. She took off her toque and threw it aside; she unfastened her cloak and tossed it back. Then, all alone as she was, she uttered a cry of horror, as she saw again the front of her white dress all splashed and stained with blood. Then there came a knock at the door, and Célestine's voice:

      "Miladi, Sir Anthony, he tell me to bring you one little bottle of champagne, to make you eat one little piece of chicken."

      Judith snatched up the couvre-pied, and drew it round her tightly. She shivered as she met the maid's gaze, her hands caught tightly at the cloth.

      "Put the tray down," she said. "It—perhaps I may feel better presently—perhaps I will take something."

      "I hope so, miladi, or Sir Anthony, he will be much distressed when he comes home," Célestine brought up a small table and put the tray upon it.

      Judith, with her terrible guilty knowledge, cowered before the girl's eyes. In vain she told herself that there was nothing to be seen, that the couvre-pied hid both her hat and cloak as well as the front of her gown. Célestine's gaze told her that something had surprised her, that she had seen something unexpected.

      Célestine was spreading out a dainty little supper, the wing of a chicken, some jelly, a small bottle of champagne; she brought the table a little nearer to her mistress.

      Judith's eyes followed hers, then she made a quick involuntary gesture of concealment. Célestine's gaze was riveted on the hand that held the couvre-pied firmly over the tell-tale bodice. The delicate skin, the slender pink-tipped fingers were all blackened with ink.

      "Miladi will take her supper." The maid's tone was perfectly respectful, but there was a subtle change in its quality.

      Judith did not look up. After that first instinctive gesture she had not moved.

      "That will do, Célestine, I will ring when I have finished," she said decidedly.

      Left alone, she leaned forward and, taking up the wineglass, drank off the contents feverishly.

      Then she stood up, a tall slim figure, with great terror-haunted eyes, burning in a white tragic face. Catching a glimpse of herself in the long pier glass, of the disfiguring stains on the front of her gown, she shuddered violently.

      Then, she caught at her dress, she tore at the fastenings with her blackened fingers, and threw it from her on the floor. She gathered it up in a heap in her arms and, crossing the room to a small wardrobe that contained some of her oldest dresses and was seldom used, she thrust her bundle deep down in the well, dropped an old skirt over it, closed the door and locked it, and, after a moment's thought, put the key away in her jewel-case. Then she looked down at her ink-stained hands. Pumice stone removed the worst stains from her fingers themselves, but the ink had got under her delicate nails, and no effort of hers would move it.

      She brushed on, mechanically. Her thoughts were back at the flat; what was happening there? she asked herself. Had the dead man been discovered?

      What would the other man do—he who had met her on the stairs—when he heard what had happened in the flat that night? Would he denounce her, set the police to search for her?

      Long fits of trembling shook her from head to foot. She tried to tell herself that it was impossible that anything should connect her with the dead man—that as Lady Carew she was safe, all links with the past destroyed; she felt that she was standing on a powder-mine, that at any moment the explosion might come, and this late-found happiness, at which she had snatched, be taken from her.

      Presently there were sounds СКАЧАТЬ