The Zeppelin Destroyer: Being Some Chapters of Secret History

“No. She shan’t. I’m with you, and will protect you, darling. Trust in me.”

“Ah!” she sighed. “It was awful. How – how I’ve lived through it I don’t know.”

“Through what?” I asked, eager to induce her to tell her story.

“No,” she answered. “You – you would never believe me! – you would never understand! Oh! that woman! Look!” and in terror she raised her finger and pointed again straight before her. “Look! Don’t you see her! She’s fixed her eyes upon me —those awful leopard’s eyes!”

“There’s nobody here, Roseye,” I assured her. “You’re alone with me.”

“Alone! Why, no. She’s there – see straight over there!” cried my love, her face distorted by wild terror. “Ah! she’s coming nearer!” she shrieked, again covering her face with her hands, as though to shut out the imaginary face.

“Ugh!” she shuddered. “Don’t let her touch me! Don’t let her touch me! Don’t, Claude – for Heaven’s sake, I beg of you. That woman – that awful woman with the leopard’s eyes!”

“Come, come,” I said, rather severely. “You must not give way to these hallucinations, Roseye. There’s nobody here, I assure you. It’s all – ”

“But she is here!” she shrieked. “You can’t deceive me; she’s here – with us. Perhaps you can’t see her – but I can. Oh! those horrible eyes – the fiend! Ah! what I have suffered!”

I did not reply. I was at a loss how to act. Sight of my beloved betraying such abject terror unnerved me.

Too well did I recollect the story of the railway signalman near Welwyn, how, when the night-express came out of the tunnel tearing north from London, he had distinctly seen two women struggling. One was in the grasp of the other.

Was this the woman whom Roseye believed was present in my room – the mysterious Woman with the Leopard’s Eyes?

I crossed to the window, and standing at the spot where at my love declared she could see the mysterious female by which she seemed haunted, said:

“Now, look, dear! There is nobody here.”

“There is!” she persisted. “She’s there just behind you. Mind! She intends to do you harm! Yes,” she added. “I saw her at Hendon. I remember, most distinctly! She knows you – and she means to do you harm!”

I returned to her side, frantic at my inability to convince her that all was her imagination.

There was no doubt that, deeply impressed upon her memory, was some recollection of terrifying events in which a mysterious woman had played a leading part.

As I looked at that blank, yet horrified expression upon her pale, sweet face I became more than ever convinced that she had been held beneath the thraldom of some woman of evil intent – that woman whom she described as possessing the crafty eyes of a leopard.

For a full half-hour I argued with her, endeavouring to calm her but, unfortunately, to little avail. Presently, however, her expression altered, she grew less agitated, until at last, as I sat holding her in my arms, I kissed her fondly upon the lips, and again begged:

“Do tell me, my darling, where you have been all this long time? I’ve searched for you everywhere.”

“I – I don’t know,” was her blank reply. “I can’t tell you.”

“But surely you recollect something?” I urged eagerly. “Those are not your own clothes that you are wearing. Where did you get them from?”

She looked quickly down at her jersey and at her skirt, and then raised her eyes to me in dismay. Apparently, for the first time, she now realised that she was dressed in some one else’s clothes.

“That’s curious!” she exclaimed, as though speaking to herself. “That’s very curious. That hat is not mine, either!”

“No, it isn’t,” I said, handing it to her to examine, which she did critically.

Then, placing her hands idly upon her knees, she remained for a long time with brows knit in silence, apparently trying to recall the past.

“You lost your chatelaine – the one I gave you,” I said, hoping that the fact might, in some way, stir the chords of her blunted memory.

“My chatelaine!” she repeated, looking at me vacantly.

“Yes. You lost your purse and money, and other things,” I said. “I think you must have lost it from a train.”

Suddenly she raised her face again to mine, and asked in a half-dazed kind of way:

“Are you —are you Claude?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Surely you remember me!”

“Oh – yes! But – oh! my head – my poor head!” and she placed her hands to her temples and drew a long breath.

“Cannot you recollect – do try and tell me something. Try and describe to me what occurred after you left home. What happened to you?”

She shook her head sadly.

“I can’t tell you,” she said at last, speaking quite rationally. “I really can’t.”

“But you must recollect something, dear?” I asked. “Your chatelaine was found dropped from a train on the line near Welwyn station, on the Great Northern Railway.”

“On the railway?” she repeated slowly. “Ah!”

“That brings back something to your memory, dearest, does it not?” I inquired anxiously, for I now felt convinced that she remembered something regarding her loss.

“Yes – but – but – well, I can’t tell you about it, Claude.”

“You can’t, dearest – or do you mean that you decline to tell me! Which?”

For a few moments she was again silent. Her blank white face had become almost as its own self, with that sweet, calm smile I had known so well.

“I must decline to tell you,” she slowly answered at last. “I’m sorry – but I – I only ask your forgiveness, Claude.”

“What is there for me to forgive?” I cried dismayed. “You disappeared. Everybody feared foul play – and – ”

“There was foul play!” she interrupted in a hoarse voice.

“By whom?”

“By somebody.”

“You know who were your enemies?” I asked quickly. “You must know, indeed.”

She nodded in the affirmative, her eyes once more downcast, as though fearing to meet my gaze.

“Cannot you name them – cannot you denounce them, darling? It is your duty,” I said in a low, persuasive tone. “Reveal the truth to me, Claude.”