Blind Policy

“Let’s look the position fairly in the face,” he said to himself. “After all, I have done Isabel no substantial wrong; I was not a free agent. I could not return; and that course is open, to go to her and to her people, frankly explain, and make up to her by my future for the weak lapse of which I have been guilty. For what are these people to me?”

He sat back with his brow knit, feeling, though, that such a course was impossible – that he could not go and humble himself before his betrothed, and that it would be an act of base and cruel hypocrisy to resume their old relations when his heart seemed to have but one desire – to see Marion again.

“No, it is impossible!” he cried angrily. “It was not love. I never could have loved her. Heaven help me! What shall I do? Some clue – some clue!”

He started mentally again from the moment when he was called down to see his visitor, and he seemed to see her once more, standing close by the table – just there! Then he once more entered the brougham with her and tried to get some gleam of the direction they took, but he could only recall that the horses were standing with their heads toward the east. No more. The result was precisely the same as it had been at other times, utterly negative. He had thought of nothing but his companion till they reached the house, and he had not even the clue of the family name.

Then a thought struck him, and he brightened up. Those moments when, after his vain search for the bullet, he had dressed the wound. She had prepared bandages for him, and with eager fingers now he thrust his hand into his breast-pocket for his pocket-book, opened it, and took out a closely-folded, very fine cambric handkerchief, deeply stained with blood. She had given it to him, and he held it to the wound for a few minutes, while a bandage was torn, and had afterwards thrust it into his breast, only in his ecstasy to later on, unseen, take it out, carefully fold it, and place it in one of the pockets of his little Russia case.

His hands trembled as he opened it out and examined the corners, the fourth showing, carefully embroidered, the letters M.E.C.

He had hoped for the full name in marking ink, and with a faint sigh he refolded the delicate piece of fabric, and replaced it in his pocket-book, to sit thinking once more, with the new cloud growing blacker.

There was one way, he thought – the police. Some shrewd officer might make something out of this narrative and trace the house; but he felt that it was doubtful, and shrank from laying bare a mystery which he felt sure Marion was eager to keep hidden. Finally he came to the conclusion that he would know no rest until he had discovered the place of his strange imprisonment himself, and in despair, to relieve the pressure of his brain, he turned to the writing-table, which was pretty well covered with letters from patients, complaining that they had come up to find him away; from others asking him to make appointments; and again others of a tendency which showed him that he was injuring his practice.

Lastly, he picked up a letter which he had put aside, unwilling to open it; and he held it for some minutes, gazing straight before him, thinking deeply, and seeming to lack the resolution to read.

At last with a sigh he tore it open.

It was from Isabel’s mother, telling him that her child was heart-broken, and asking him to give some explanation of the cruel treatment to which they had been subjected.

“Let them think the truth,” he cried passionately as he tore the letter into tiny fragments. “Let them think me half mad, I cannot – I dare not write.”

There were two or three packets on the table, even then, and he winced as he turned them over. One was a bundle of proofs of an article he had written for a medical paper; the next was a carefully-sealed box, registered, and he threw it into a drawer with an angry ejaculation. It was from a jeweller, and contained a pearl bracelet he had bought as a present for his betrothed.

The other was also a box that had come by post, registered, and it was heavy. He did not know what that was; he had ordered no other present, and his curiosity being excited, he cut the green tape, tore off the great seals, and was in the act of opening the cartridge paper in which it was folded, when he stopped and snatched up the tape to which the sealing-wax adhered.

There were three seals, two the coarse splotches of common wax used by postal authorities; the other was fine and had been sealed with arms and crest, but a drop from the coarse postal wax had half covered it and Chester could make nothing of the sender.

The box within was fastened down with brads, and he forced it open with some curiosity, to find a heavy packet of what seemed to be short, thick pieces of pipe, and with a vague idea that they were connected with some surgical instrument sent to him from the maker on trial, he pushed it aside impatiently, and threw himself back in his chair.

The next minute the thought occurred to him that a surgical instrument maker would not seal the packet with armorial bearings, and he would have sent some communication, so, catching up the box, he drew out the carefully-done-up packet within, tore it open, and then let his hands fall on the table, for the contents were rouleaux of sovereigns, all bright and fresh from the mint, the number written upon the packet – “210 pounds.” Two hundred guineas – the fee promised to him for his services.

“Gentlemanly and honourable in this, after all,” he said to himself; and he eagerly searched the papers to see if there was a note.

None, and with an ejaculation of disappointment he unlocked the table drawer, thrust in the rouleaux, locked them up, and then caught up the pieces of green tape again, to examine the blurred red seal.

“Eureka!” he muttered; “then here is the clue.” He carefully cut off the seal and placed it in his pocket-book, after satisfying himself that the crest over the shield of armorial bearings was a mailed arm bent, the elbow only being clear. With this to guide him, he went to a book-case, and took down a Peerage, in the faint hope of finding the arms of some great family there; and he was still vainly searching when the servant knocked at the door to tell him that breakfast was ready.

Laura and his aunt were waiting in the dining-room, and their salute was a formal “Good-morning,” after which the breakfast was partaken of in silence, and he rose to go back to his room.

“Will you see your patients this morning, Frederick?” said his aunt, as he reached the door.

He looked back at her sharply, and then glanced at his sister, who was watching him too.

“No,” he said sharply. “I have important business – I am going out.”

“But – ”

Chester closed the door and hurried to his room. He knew what was about to be said, and he was in such an intense state of irritation, that he could not trust himself to reply, but took hat and coat directly, went out, and jumping into the first cab was driven to his club, where he spent the morning in the library, examining books on landed gentry, peerages, baronetages, everything he could find relating to armorial bearings, and finding crest after crest of mailed arms holding swords, daggers, spears, flowers, plumes, hearts, and arrows, but nothing which quite answered to the seal.

After a hasty lunch he went out to resume his search for the house, and for the next fortnight this was his life, seeking, and seeking in vain, for he found hundreds, each of which might very well have been that which he sought, till one afternoon he was walking down formal old streets of gloomy mansions, when his eyes lit upon a house, one of fifty almost alike, double-fronted with a broad entrance, and exactly what he felt the place must be that he sought. He had passed it a dozen times before, but it had never impressed him, and with a strange feeling of elation, as he noted its gloomy aspect, uncleaned windows, and air of neglect, he grew certain that he had made the discovery at last.

The next thing was to note the number and examine a Directory, and walking rapidly on without daring to look for fear of being observed, he went to the end of the street, crossed over, and returned, read the half-obliterated number on the time-worn door as he rapidly passed, and once more had himself driven to his club.

“Found at last,” he muttered, as he opened the great Directory and found the number, and name, “Westcott.”

Not much, but something within him made him feel that he was right, and he closed the book, drawing a deep breath, and went straight to the great grim street.

He had made no plans, but had determined upon a bold attack as the likeliest way of obtaining entrance. The old housekeeper would answer the door, and threats, cajoling, or bribery he was determined should be his pass-key, for see Marion and be assured of her safety he would, even, he told himself, if he had to use force.

For one moment only he hesitated before he plunged into the lion’s jaws, as it were – should he speak to a policeman and tell him how to act if he did not soon return?

“No,” he said; “it would be too cowardly, and I might injure her.”

The next minute he had given a heavy peal on knocker and bell, listened to the hollow echoes raised within the forbidding place, and stood waiting for the opening of the door.

Chapter Ten.

The Bookworm at Home

As Chester waited for an answer to his summons the thought of the awkwardness of his position struck him, but he was strung up and determined to go on with his quest at all hazards. At the end of a minute there was no reply, and he knocked and rang again, with the hope rising that he was on the right tack at last, for the silence accorded with the mystery of the place he sought.

It was not until he had roused the echoes within the house for the third time that he heard the rattle of a chain being taken down; then the door was opened slowly, and Chester’s heart sank as he found himself face to face with a dim-eyed, sleepy-looking old man, thin, stooping, and untidy of aspect, in his long, dusty dressing-gown and slippers. He was wearing an old-fashioned pair of round glass, silver-rimmed spectacles, whose ends were secured by a piece of black ribbon; and these he pushed up on his forehead as he turned his head side-wise and peered at the visitor.

“I’m afraid you knocked before, sir,” he said in a quiet, dreamy tone.

“Yes – yes. I ought not to have come in this unceremonious way.”

“Pray do not apologise,” said the old gentleman, mildly. “I was busy reading, and did not hear.”

He pushed his glasses a little higher and smiled in a pleasant, benevolent fashion, while at the first glance Chester saw that he was quite off the scent. For he gazed past the old man into the great hall whose walls were covered with book-shelves, while parcels and piles of volumes were heaped up in every available corner.

“I see that I have made a mistake,” said Chester, hastily.

“Indeed?”

“I have come to the wrong house. I am very sorry. I am trying to find some people here.”

“Yes? Well, houses are very much alike. Will you step in? I can perhaps help you. I think I have a Directory somewhere – somewhere, if I can lay my hand upon it, for I seldom use such a work, and I have so many books.”

The old gentleman, whose appearance branded him as a dreamy, absorbed bookworm, drew back, and Chester involuntarily entered the hall, to note that with the book-cases away it would be such a place as he had visited; but while that was magnificently furnished, and pervaded by the soft glow of electric light, here all was dust and mouldering knowledge, the entrance suggesting that the rest of the house must be the same.

“Pray come in,” said the old man, after closing the door; and he led the way into what had been intended for a large dining-room, but had been turned by its occupant into a library, packed with books from floor to ceiling; piles were upon the tables and chairs, and heaps here and there upon the dusty old Turkey carpet.

“Directory – Directory,” said the old man, looking slowly round. “Books, books, books, but not the one we want.”

“You seem to have a large and valuable library,” Chester ventured to observe.