lying down with a bad headache. Nor was she to meet Digby Groat. Her first meal was eaten in solitude.
“Mr. Groat has not come back from the country,” explained Jackson, who waited on her. “Are you comfortable, miss?”
“Quite, thank you,” she said.
There was an air about this man which she did not like. It was not that he failed in respect, or that he was in any way familiar, but there was something proprietorial in his attitude. It almost seemed as though he had a financial interest in the place, and she was glad when her meal was finished. She went straight up to her room a little dissatisfied that she had not met her employer. There were many things which she wanted to ask Mrs. Groat; and particularly did she wish to know what days she would be free.
Presently she switched out the light, and opening the French windows, stepped out into the cool, fragrant night. The after-glow of the sun still lingered in the sky. The square was studded with lights; an almost incessant stream of motor-car traffic passed under her window, for Grosvenor Square is the short cut between Oxford Street and Piccadilly.
The stars spangled the clear sky with a million specks of quivering light. Against the jewelled robe of the northern heavens, the roofs and steeples and stacks of London had a mystery and wonder which only the light of day could dispel. And in the majestic solitude of the night, Eunice’s heart seemed to swell until she could scarcely breathe. It was not the magic of stars that brought the blood flaming to her face; nor the music of the trees. It was the flash of understanding that one half of her, one splendid fragment of the pattern on which her life was cut, was somewhere there in the darkness asleep perhaps—thinking of her, she prayed. She saw his face with startling distinctness, saw the tender kindness of his eyes, felt on her moist palm the pressure of those strong brown fingers….
With a sigh which was half a sob, she closed the window and drew the silken curtains, shutting out the immortal splendours of nature from her view.
Five minutes later she was asleep.
How long she slept she did not know. It must have been hours, she thought. The stream of traffic had ceased and there was no sound from outside, save the distant hoot of a motor-horn. The room was in darkness, and yet she was conscious that somebody was there!
She sat up in bed and a cold shiver ran down her spine. Somebody was in the room! She reached out to turn on the light and could have shrieked, for she touched a hand, a cold, small hand that was resting on the bedside table. For a second she was paralysed and then the hand was suddenly withdrawn. There was a rustle of curtain rings and the momentary glimpse of a figure against the lesser gloom of the night, and, shaking in every limb, she leapt from the bed and switched on the light. The room was empty, but the French window was ajar.
And then she saw on the table by her side, a grey card. Picking it up with shaking hands she read:
“One who loves you, begs you for your life and honour’s sake to leave this house.”
It bore no other signature than a small blue hand. She dropped the card on the bed and stood staring at it for a while, and then, slipping into her dressing-gown, she unlocked the door of her room and went out into the passage. A dim light was burning at the head of the stairs. She was terror-stricken, hardly knew what she was doing, and she seemed to fly down the stairs.
She must find somebody, some living human creature, some reality to which she could take hold. But the house was silent. The hall lamp was burning, and by its light she saw the old clock and was dimly conscious that she could hear its solemn ticking. It was three o’clock. There must be somebody awake in the house. The servants might still be up, she thought wildly, and ran down a passage to what she thought was the entrance to the servants’ hall. She opened a door and found herself in another passage illuminated by one light at the farther end, where further progress was arrested by a white door. She raced along until she came to the door and tried to open it. There was no handle and it was a queer door. It was not made of wood, but of padded canvas.
And then as she stood bewildered, there came from behind the padded door a squeal of agony, so shrill, so full of pain, that her blood seemed to turn to ice.
Again it shrieked, and turning she fled back the way she had come, through the hall to the front door. Her trembling fingers fumbled at the key and presently the lock snapped and the door flew open. She staggered out on to the broad steps of the house and stopped, for a man was sitting on the head of those steps.
He turned his face as the door opened, and in the light from the hall he was revealed. It was Jim Steele!
CHAPTER FIVE
JIM came stumbling to his feet, staring in blank amazement at the unexpected apparition, and for a moment thus they stood, facing one another, the girl stricken dumb with fear and surprise.
She thought he was part of a dreadful dream, an image that was conjured by her imagination and would presently vanish.
“Jim—Mr. Steele!” she gasped.
In a stride he was by her side, his arm about her shoulders.
“What is wrong?” he asked quickly, and in his anxiety his voice was almost harsh.
She shuddered and dropped her face on his breast.
“Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful!” she whispered, and he heard the note of horror in her low voice.
“May I ask what is the meaning of this?” demanded a suave voice, and with a start the girl turned.
A man was standing in the doorway and for a second she did not recognize him. Even Jim, who had seen Digby Groat at close quarters, did not know him in his unusual attire. He was dressed in a long white overall which reached from his throat to his feet; over his head was a white cap which fitted him so that not a particle of his hair could be seen. Bands of white elastic held his cuffs close to his wrists and both hands were hidden in brown rubber gloves.
“May I again ask you, Miss Weldon, why you are standing on my doorstep in the middle of the night, attired in clothes which I do not think are quite suitable for street wear? Perhaps you will come inside and explain,” he said stepping back. “Grosvenor Square is not quite used to this form of midnight entertainment.”
Still clutching Jim’s arm, the girl went slowly back to the passage and Digby shut the door.
“And Mr. Steele, too,” said Digby with ironic surprise, “you’re a very early caller.”
Jim said nothing. His attention was wholly devoted to the girl. She was trembling from head to foot, and he found a chair for her.
“There are a few explanations due,” he said coolly, “but I rather think they are from you, Mr. Groat.”
“From me?’” Mr. Groat was genuinely unprepared for that demand.
“So far as my presence is concerned, that can be explained in a minute,” said Jim. “I was outside the house a few moments ago when the door swung open and Miss Weldon ran out in a state of abject terror. Perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Groat, why this lady is reduced to such a condition?”
There was a cold menace in his tone which Digby Groat did not like to hear.
“I have not the slightest idea what it is all about,” he said. “I have been working in my laboratory for the last half-hour, and the first intimation I had that anything was wrong was when I heard the door open.”
The girl had recovered now, and some of the colour had returned to her face, yet her voice shook as she recited the incidents of the night, both men listening attentively.
Jim took particular notice of the man’s attitude, and he was satisfied in his mind that Digby Groat was as much in ignorance of the visit to the girl’s room as he himself. When she had finished, Groat nodded.
“The terrifying cry you heard from my laboratory,” he smiled, “is easily explained. Nobody was being hurt; at least, if he was being hurt, it was for his own good. When I came back to my house tonight, I found my little dog had a piece of glass in its paw, and I was extracting it.”
She drew a sigh of relief.
“I’m so sorry I made such a fuss,” she said penitently, “but I—I was frightened.”
“You are sure somebody was in your room?” asked Digby.
“Absolutely certain.” She had not told him about the card.
“They came through the French window from the balcony?” She nodded.
“May I see your room?”
She hesitated for a moment.
“I will go in first to tidy it,” she said. She remembered the card was on the bed, and she was particularly anxious that it should not be read.
Uninvited Jim Steele followed Digby upstairs into the beautiful room. The magnificence of the room, its
