Читать книгу A Shadowed Love - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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"Tell me all about sir," he suggested.

"I can tell you nothing whatever," said the other, still slinking with terror. "My mind has gone again, I only know that I have had a great shock, which is none the less terrible because I have been expecting it for years. I heard his step and ran. Put me in a crowd with a million people and I could pick out his step without hesitation."

The speaker wiped the blood from his face. He was not very much hurt, only frightened to the verge of insanity. He was quivering all over like a reed shaken by the wind.

"Why does this man pursue you?" Stevenson asked.

"I don't know. I have entirely forgotten. But I never forget his step and that I must fly when I hear it coming. You are a gentleman?"

Dick modestly hoped so. The knowledge was one of the few consolations that remained to him. The old man looked long and earnestly into his pleasant, open face. It was some time before he spoke.

"At present I know nothing," he said at length. "The terror has deprived me of my wits for the time being. To-morrow I shall be doing my business again as if nothing had happened. I ask you to leave me now, sir, and think no more of what you have seen and heard. Let it be a secret between us."

"Provided that you let me see you home," said Dick.

"No; I am going to walk about a little longer. Then it may come back to me. At present I could not tell you my address or even—"

He broke off abruptly, and regarded his companion with troubled eyes. The man had actually forgotten his name and address. It was utterly impossible for him to be left like this.

"We'll speak to a policeman," Dick said, promptly.

The terror shut down again, the deep-set eyes dilated.

"No, no," he whispered; "anything but that. The police must not know. Do you want to ruin me utterly?"

"Then I am going to take you home," Dick said, firmly. "Yours may be an exceedingly valuable life for all I know. Where do you live?"

"As I hope for salvation I cannot tell you. It will come back to me presently, perhaps in a few minutes, two hours. But it will come back."

"But surely your own name, sir—"

"I have no more cognisance of it than I have of your own."

The man spoke in evident sincerity. It was clear that he concealed nothing. All the time Dick wondered why his voice was so strangely familiar. But he had other things to occupy his attention. He must respect the old man's earnest prayer to keep the story from the police. At the same time, in his present demented condition, it was impossible to leave him to the mercy of the streets. It was a pretty puzzle for the young novelist. If this thing were a story, how would he have got out of the difficulty?

"How long have you been out to-night?" he asked, tentatively.

"I don't know. At present I don't know anything. There is only a vague impression that a beautiful girl with blue eyes is waiting for me anxiously. If you ask me who she is, I fancy it is my daughter."

"Then the beautiful girl with the blue eyes shall not be disappointed," said Stevenson, cheerfully. "I shall find a way out."

He rubbed his coat sleeve thoughtfully. There was a little dampness on it from the effects of the recent spurt of rain, and Dick noticed that the clothing of his companion was perfectly dry. The rain had been over for nearly half an hour, therefore it was manifest the old man had quite recently left the house. He was not a fast walker, therefore he could not be far from home. The deduction was quite logical.

"You came out after the rain?" Dick asked.

"Yes, I went back, fearing that it would be heavy. It is too hot a night for one to wear an overcoat. Therefore I waited for the rain to stop."

Something had been gained, at any rate. Stevenson studied his companion latently. On his dark coat he could see a number of short white hairs.

"You keep a small fox-terrier dog?" he asked, with sudden inspiration.

The other nodded. His memory seemed to be curiously patchy. The little things seemed with him, the great ones were gone. "A little fox-terrier called Ben," he said.

With that Dick was fain to be content. Here he was saddled with a lunatic old gentleman in the streets of midnight London, and the only clue to the local habitation of his companion was that he possessed a dog called Ben. That master and dog were good friends Stevenson deduced from the hairs on his companion's clothing. What the novelist had to do now was to look for a house within a radius of a mile or so where there was a dog called Ben.

It seemed slightly ridiculous, but Stevenson could think of no better plan than getting his companion to whistle and call the dog at intervals. If the worst came to the worst he could take his demented friend to his own humble abode and keep him there till morning. For some time it had been painfully apparent to Dick that he was faint for want of food. If he collapsed now there would be nothing for it but the nearest police station.

"Whistle again," he said, dreamily. "Try once more."

They were in Cambria Square now, near the large block of flats. The flats appeared to have several doors, for this one was not even on the same side as Stevenson entered an hour or two before. The old gentleman whistled softly, and called Ben by name for about the fiftieth time. There was a yelping and scratching behind the door, and a dog whining in joyful recognition.

"Shades of the immortal Dupurin," Dick cried, "success at last. It is very certain that we have found your house, sir."

With no fear of surly porter before his eyes, Dick opened the door.

A little dog came bounding out and gyrated wildly. A hall porter appeared, and with the surly insolence of his kind demanded to know what was the matter.

"This gentleman lives here, I think," Dick said. "He has had a nasty fall—"

"Second floor," the porter growled. "Lift's off for the night. Better take him up, sir. Telephone on next floor if you want a doctor."

With a certain pardonable curiosity Dick led the way upstairs. So far as he could see there was only two sets of flats on the second floor, and one of them was obviously in the hands of the decorators. Therefore, there was only one alternative. Dick pushed into a corridor that seemed familiar to him, and boldly led the way into a drawing-room, where a girl was seated at the piano playing soft dreamy music.

The room was bathed in electric light; there were wonderful works of art there—silver of Cellini, engravings after Romney and Reynolds, a Hopper or two, some marvellous old French furniture. But the most striking thing about the room were the marvellous masses of flowers everywhere. The whole place was a veritable bower of them, roses and lilies and violets. The mere arrangement of them was in itself a work of art.

But Dick forgot the flowers a moment later as the girl turned her face towards him. It was the beautiful girl with the pathetic blue eyes he had seen two hours before. The intruder had not the least doubt about this, that face and those eyes were too indelibly printed on his mind for that.

The girl came forward without hesitation.

"I have been anxious about you," she cried. "Father, you have had one of your bad turns, I could hear that by your step as you came upstairs. And this gentleman has brought you home, though he is tired and utterly worn out himself."

"It is good of you to think of me," Dick stammered; "but how could you possibly know that I am—"

Starving, he was about to say, but stopped in time. The girl laughed with a rippling music that filled the room.

"I have the gift of second sight," she said. Though her face was wreathed in smiles, the great blue eyes never laughed, but ever remained so strangely pathetic. "Only a man utterly worn out would walk as you do. And you are quite young, too. You must have something to eat at once."

She crossed the room and rang the bell. Dick watched her graceful motions with a pleasure that was almost akin to pain.