Celia sank into the chair and, with the scrawl tightly clenched in her

hand, burst into tears. She sat and waited and listened; a quarter of an

hour dragged by; footsteps, some dragging and stealthy, some light and

free, passed up and down the stairs, and every step made her heart leap

with apprehension. Had he gone? Oh, why had he not gone? There was

danger in every moment. Presently she heard a faint, almost inaudible

knock at her door; she rose quickly and opened it a little way; no one

was standing outside, the corridor was empty; but she heard someone

descending the stairs below her. She took a few steps out and looked

down.

Advertisement..

It was he. At the bend of the stairs, he paused and looked up; the light

of the murky, wire-globed gas-jet fell on him and she saw the pallor of

his face; saw something else, something that remained with her while

life lasted--a look, that expression in his eyes, for which many a woman

has been willing to give body and soul. He gazed up at her in silence

for a moment; then, with a gesture of the hand which conveyed farewell

and gratitude, he moved on and disappeared.

Celia stood there until his footsteps had ceased to sound, and she heard

the outer door close softly, then she went back to her room and covered

her face with her hands; perhaps she was praying; if so, it was

unconsciously; but she still listened for the detectives, the

police-officers who might be coming. The strain was almost unendurable,

and it was with a strange, inexplicable relief that her suspense was

brought to an end by the sound of someone approaching the opposite door

and knocking. She rose, trembling, and listened, as she had listened so

many times that eventful night. The knock was repeated three times; she

heard the visitor--a detective, she didn't doubt--try the handle of the

opposite door. Then, to her horror, she heard him move across the

corridor and knock at her door. The horror was so great that she felt as

if every limb were benumbed and paralyzed; her mouth felt so dry as to

be incapable of speech. The knock came again, and, with a great effort,

she managed to say: "Who is there?"

"Pardon me. I wish to speak to you," came the response in a man's voice.

What should she do? The detective would be made suspicious by her

agitation, would question her, in all probability would drag from her

some information which would enable him to track and arrest the

fugitive. And yet she could not refuse to speak to him. Clenching her

hands and setting her teeth hard, she forced herself to an appearance of

self-composure and opened the door; an elderly man, scrupulously

dressed, after the fashion of a solicitor or well-to-do City man,

confronted her. He raised his hat and, in a grave and apologetic manner,

said: "I beg your pardon. I am sorry to intrude upon you, trouble you. Can you

tell me, madam----? Do you know your opposite neighbour; a young man who

lives at No. 106 there?"




Most Popular