'I can't say,' rejoined his son, 'unless she went back in the interests of her own magnificent head of hair. The prison-scissors, I needn't tell you, had made short work of it with Miss Gwilt's love-locks, in every sense of the word and Mrs. Oldershaw, I beg to add, is the most eminent woman in England, as restorer-general of the dilapidated heads and faces of the female sex. Put two and two together; and perhaps you'll agree with me, in this case, that they make four.'
'Yes, yes; two and two make four,' repeated his father, impatiently. 'But I want to know something else. Did she hear from him again? Did he send for her after he had gone away to foreign parts?'
'The captain? Why, what on earth can you be thinking of? Hadn't he spent every farthing of her money? and wasn't he loose on the Continent out of her reach? She waited to hear from him. I dare say, for she persisted in believing in him. But I'll lay you any wager you like, she never saw the sight of his handwriting again. We did our best at the office to open her eyes; we told her plainly that he had a first wife living, and that she hadn't the shadow of a claim on him. She wouldn't believe us, though we met her with the evidence. Obstinate, devilish obstinate. I dare say she waited for months together before she gave up the last hope of ever seeing him again.'
Mr. Bashwood looked aside quickly out of the cab window. 'Where could she turn for refuge next?' he said, not to his son, but to himself. 'What, in Heaven's name, could she do?'
'Judging by my experience of women,' remarked Bashwood the younger, overhearing him, 'I should say she probably tried to drown herself. But that's only guess-work again: it's all guess-work at this part of her story. You catch me at the end of my evidence, dad, when you come to Miss Gwilt's proceedings in the spring and summer of the present year. She might, or she might not, have been desperate enough to attempt suicide; and she might, or she might not, have been at the bottom of those inquiries that I made for Mrs. Oldershaw. I dare say you'll see her this morning; and perhaps, if you use your influence, you may be able to make her finish her own story herself.'
Mr. Bashwood, still looking out of the cab window, suddenly laid his hand on his son's arm.
'Hush! hush!' he exclaimed, in violent agitation. 'We have got there at last. Oh, Jemmy, feel how my heart beats! Here is the hotel.'
'Bother your heart,' said Bashwood the younger. 'Wait here while I make the inquiries.'
'I'll come with you!' cried his father. 'I can't wait! I tell you, I can't wait!'
They went into the hotel together, and asked for 'Mr. Armadale.'
The answer, after some little hesitation and delay, was that Mr. Armadale had gone away six days since. A second waiter added that Mr. Armadale's friend—Mr. Midwinter—had only left that morning. Where had Mr. Armadale gone? Somewhere into the country. Where had Mr. Midwinter gone? Nobody knew.
Mr. Bashwood looked at his son in speechless and helpless dismay.
'Stuff and nonsense!' said Bashwood the younger, pushing his father back roughly into the cab. 'He's safe enough. We shall find him at Miss Gwilt's.'
The old man took his son's hand and kissed it. 'Thank you, my dear,' he said, gratefully. 'Thank you for comforting me.'
The cab was driven next to the second lodging which Miss Gwilt had occupied, in the neighborhood of Tottenham Court Road.
'Stop here,' said the spy, getting out, and shutting his father into the cab. 'I mean to manage this part of the business myself.'
He knocked at the house door. 'I have got a note for Miss Gwilt,' he said, walking into the passage, the moment the door was opened.
'She's gone,' answered the servant. 'She went away last night.'
Bashwood the younger wasted no more words with the servant. He insisted on seeing the mistress. The mistress confirmed the announcement of Miss Gwilt's departure on the previous evening. Where had she gone to? The woman couldn't say. How had she left? On foot. At what hour? Between nine and ten. What had she done with her luggage? She had no luggage. Had a gentleman been to see her on the previous day? Not a soul, gentle or simple, had come to the house to see Miss Gwilt.
The father's face, pale and wild, was looking out of the cab window as the son descended the house steps. 'Isn't she there, Jemmy?' he asked, faintly—'isn't she there?'
'Hold your tongue,' cried the spy, with the native coarseness of his nature rising to the surface at last. 'I'm not at the end of my inquiries yet.'
He crossed the road, and entered a coffee-shop situated exactly opposite the house he had just left.
In the box nearest the window two men were sitting talking together anxiously.
'Which of you was on duty yesterday evening, between nine and ten o'clock?' asked Bashwood the younger, suddenly joining them, and putting his question in a quick, peremptory whisper.
'I was, sir,' said one of the men, unwillingly.
'Did you lose sight of the house?—Yes! I see you did.'
'Only for a minute, sir. An infernal blackguard of a soldier came in—'
'That will do,' said Bashwood the younger. 'I know what the soldier did, and who sent him to do it. She has given us the slip again. You are the greatest ass living. Consider yourself dismissed.' With those words, and with an oath to emphasize them, he left the coffee-shop and returned to the cab.
'She's gone!' cried his father. 'Oh, Jemmy, Jemmy, I see it in your face!' He fell back into his own corner of the cab, with a faint, wailing cry. 'They're married,' he moaned to himself; his hands falling helplessly on his knees; his hat falling unregarded from his head. 'Stop them!' he exclaimed, suddenly rousing himself, and seizing his son in a frenzy by the collar of the coat.
'Go back to the hotel,' shouted Bashwood the younger to the cabman. 'Hold your noise!' he added, turning fiercely on his father. 'I want to think.'
