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.
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?"