The Mystery of the Clasped Hands: A Novel

"And your mother, how is she?"

He saw the look of pain which spread over her face, and noticed that her eyes filled with tears.

"My mother is dead!" she answered, very quietly. "She died in Naples two months ago."

"And you are alone in the world? My poor child! This will never do. You must let me help you if I can."

"No, no!" she cried, this time almost fiercely. "I do not require any help. I can support myself quite well."

"I shall have to be convinced of that before I let you go," he answered. "London is not the sort of place for a young girl to be alone in, particularly when one is a foreigner and poor."

"You were always kind to me," she replied, "but I can not let you do more. Besides you are going to be married. Is that not so?"

"It is quite true," he answered; "but how did you hear of it?"

She looked confused for a moment.

"I can not tell you," she replied. "Perhaps I saw it in the newspapers. You are famous, and they write about you. Now I must be getting home."

An empty cab happened to pass at that moment, and Godfrey hailed it.

"Get in," he said, when the vehicle had drawn up beside the pavement. "I am going to see you home. This is not the hour for you to be alone in the streets."

"No, no," she protested, even more vehemently than before. "I can not let you do this. I can walk quite well. It is not far, and I have often done it."

"Teresina, you must do as I tell you," said Godfrey, firmly. "I insist that you get in and that you give me your address."

She hesitated for a moment before she replied. Then she said:

"No. 16, Burford Street, off the Tottenham Court Road."

Having given the address to the driver, Godfrey took his place beside the girl. He was thankful, indeed, that he had met her, but the circumstances under which he had found her distressed him more than he was able to say. As they drove along he endeavoured to elicit some information from her concerning her present life. She was not communicative, however. That there was some mystery at the back of it all, he could see, and the more he thought of it, the more unhappy he became. Poor little Teresina! He remembered her as she was when she had first sat to him for the picture which had made his name; and as he looked out upon the falling snow and the miserable streets with the dark figures scurrying along the pavement on either hand, and thought of her future, his heart sank within him. He wondered whether he could persuade her to accept a sufficient sum of money from him to enable her to return to her own country and to live in comfort there? He was rich, and after all it was not only his duty but his pleasure to help an old friend. As she seemed so distressed at meeting him, he resolved to say nothing on the subject then, however; nevertheless, he was determined in his own mind that he would write to her on the morrow and make the offer, whether she accepted it or not. At last they came to a part of the Strand which was more brilliantly illuminated than elsewhere. As they came within the circle of the light, Teresina put up her hand to push back her hair, and Godfrey noticed that she wore a wedding-ring upon her third finger. This gave him food for reflection.

"Teresina," he said, "why did you not tell me that you were married? I thought you said you were alone in the world."

"My husband is dead," she answered, with what was almost a note of despair in her voice.

"Your husband dead, and your mother dead too?" he repeated, almost incredulously. "Teresina, my dear child, are you telling me the truth?"

"Why should you doubt me?" she cried. "You have no reason for doing so."

"Because I feel that you are hiding something from me," he said. "Is it any use my imploring you to confide in me? You know that I am your friend, and that I would help you to the best of my ability."

"I know you would," she answered. "You were always a good and kind friend to me. All I ask of you now, however, is to leave me alone. I am unhappy enough as it is. Do not seek to add to my misery."

"Heaven knows I have no desire to do that," said Godfrey. "But if you think I am going to leave you, as you are now, you are much mistaken. If you would only be brave and tell me everything, it might simplify matters."

"Impossible," she cried. "Have I not told you there is nothing to tell? Oh, why did I not go another way home!"

"Because it was to be," he answered. "You were in trouble, Providence sent me to help you. Believe me, that is the explanation."

A few moments later the cab turned from the Tottenham Court Road into a narrower and darker street. Half – way down this dingy thoroughfare it came to a standstill – before a house on the right-hand side. It was by no means a cheerful dwelling, and at that hour it was wrapped in complete darkness. They descended from the cab, and Godfrey, who had no desire that the cabman should overhear his conversation with Teresina, paid him off with a liberal largesse, and allowed him to go on his way rejoicing.

"Is it any use my again asking you to tell me your trouble?" he said to the girl beside him, when the vehicle had disappeared and a policeman had passed, after taking a long survey of them.

"Not in the least," she answered. "Please do not ask me."

"In that case, will you make me a promise, Teresina? If you will do so, I will ask no further questions for the present."

"What is it I am to promise?"

"That you will not leave this house without first letting me know whither you are going?"

"I will do that," she answered. "I will let you know when I leave this house."

"Here is my card then. You had better take care of it. A letter or telegram will always find me. And now good-night, my poor girl. Remember, I am your friend."

"Good-night, and may God bless you."

So saying, she disappeared into the house, while he, in his turn, after taking the bearing of the house, in case he should want to find it again, set off in the opposite direction to that by which he had entered the street.

Meanwhile Teresina, choking down her sobs, climbed the stairs to the room she occupied in that ramshackle tenement. Unlocking the door, she entered and started to cross the floor in search of a box of matches she remembered having left upon the chimney-piece. She had not advanced more than three steps, however, before she was seized by the throat from behind, while at the same time a keen-bladed knife was driven, as far as the handle, between her shoulders, only to be withdrawn and thrust in again and again, until she fell with a little gasp upon the floor.

When her assassin had made sure that she was dead, he lit the gas and knelt beside her for a few minutes. Then he rose, placed something in a box upon the table, turned off the gas once more, picked up the box, and went out, relocking the door behind him.

CHAPTER VI

After leaving Teresina, Godfrey made his way back to his hotel. As he strode along he meditated as to what he should do to help her. That the girl was in serious trouble, he had not the least doubt; but since she would not allow him to assist her in any form, what could he do?

He had been through a good deal that day, and by the time he reached his hotel he was quite worn out. The night porter who admitted him noticed his haggard appearance.

"You don't look very well, sir," he said, sympathetically; "is there anything I can do for you?"

"If you could manage to get me a brandy and soda, I should be very much obliged," Godfrey said, as he dropped into one of the seats in the hall.

"I will do so with pleasure, sir," the man replied, and disappeared at once in search of the refreshment, which he very soon brought back. Godfrey drank it off, and then announced his intention of proceeding at once to bed.

"Poor little Teresina!" he said to himself as he wound up his watch; "poor little girl, it seems a shame that she should suffer so!"

Little did he guess that at that moment Teresina's troubles were over, that she would never know sorrow or poverty again.

Next morning he returned to Detwich by an early train. Though he had only been absent from it a little more than twenty-four hours, it seemed to him that he had been away for years.

"You look tired out, Godfrey," said his mother, as they stood together in the hall.

"I did not have a very good night last night," he said, "and I had a hard day's running about yesterday. That is all. You needn't worry about me, mother; I'm as strong as a horse."

He went on to tell his mother of his meeting with Fensden, and informed her that the latter intended coming to stay with them next day.