She had been perfectly candid in the matter, and Delahay knew exactly what he had to expect. Perhaps the prospect of tranquil happiness was far better than the rosy dreams of youth. And all this was now shattered by the unexpected tragedy.
Maria Delahay had reached this point in her thoughts; then her mind wandered on to what Lance had recently told her. And so, after all, her sister was alive. This knowledge had not reached Maria Delahay tonight. She had suspected it for some days, and it had come about in quite a prosaic way.
She could see it now quite clearly in her mind. The pleasant-mannered chambermaid had come into the sitting-room soon after Delahay had gone out on that fatal evening. She had evidently taken a liking to her visitor. Maria could see her now as she fussed about the room.
“Is there anything you want?” she asked.
“You seem to have forgotten me,” the girl said. “I waited upon you when you were here last spring.”
“Last spring!” Mrs. Delahay exclaimed. “Why, surely, you have made a mistake. I have never been here before.”
“Oh, madam,” the girl said reproachfully, “you are making fun of me. You came here by yourself, and stayed for the best part of a week. You had very few visitors, and you used to talk to me a good deal. … Only the name is different. You used to have Carlotta, not Maria, on the envelopes I brought up to you.”
Mrs. Delahay started. With difficulty she restrained her feelings, for the chambermaid’s innocent words had let a flood of light in a dark place. In the happy old days people were constantly mistaking her for her sister. Was it possible that her sister was still alive? Was it possible that she had been deceived all this time? A little dissimulation might be the means of getting the truth from the voluble chambermaid.
“You have sharp eyes,” she said, “and, no doubt, a good memory. How long did I stay here, and where did I go afterwards?”
“It was a little over a week,” the girl said. “And then you went away to Number Seventeen, Isleworth Road, Kensington. I remember the address because I have a sister in service who used to live next door. Perhaps madam does not want to be remembered? There are many reasons why it is prudent not to know too much.”
“I am glad to see you are so discreet,” Mrs. Delahay smiled. “There is no reason to mention this to anybody else, you understand?”
XVIII
After Many Years
Left alone to herself, Maria Delahay had summed up the situation clearly and logically. Beyond all doubt her sister was still alive. Beyond all doubt Carlotta had been staying at the Grand Hotel within the past twelve months. She, too, seemed to have had her misfortunes, misfortunes more keen and cruel than even those of her younger sister. It was very strange that Maria should learn the truth in this fashion. It was stranger still that she should discover the house to which Carlotta had gone on leaving the hotel. Up to this moment Maria had no idea of going out herself. She intended to go straight to bed and await her husband’s return.
Now a strange restlessness came over her. She felt it impossible to remain imprisoned within those four walls. There was no likelihood of Louis Delahay’s return for the next two hours. Why, then, should she not go out and take a cab as far as Isleworth Road? It was very late, of course, but then London was a late place, and a midnight call no novelty.
Allowing herself to act on the impulse of the moment, Maria walked downstairs, and out into the Strand. Hailing a cab, she was driven to Isleworth Road, where she gave orders for the driver to stop. The locality was a respectable one, and there were lights in a good many of the houses; but at number seventeen Mrs. Delahay met with disappointment. The house was not empty, though the blinds were down, and there was not a light to be seen. The dingy nature of the steps and the tarnished look of the brasswork testified to the fact that neither had received any attention of late. As Maria stood there ringing the bell for the third time, in the faint hope of making somebody hear, a policeman came along.
“You are wasting your time there, lady,” he said civilly enough. “The people are not at home. I think they are coming back at the end of the week, because my instructions to keep a special eye on the house don’t go beyond Saturday.”
Maria thanked the officer and went back in a cab. She would have liked to have asked more questions, but she restrained her natural curiosity. After all, it was not a far cry to Saturday, and even then she might meet with a disappointment. In all probability her sister had left London long ago.
Maria was thinking all these things over now that Walter Lance had gone. She wondered that her sister had so completely passed out of her mind. But, then, she had had so many terrible anxieties to weigh her down. She could not sleep for thinking of the tragedy. She paced up and down the room in a vain attempt to get away from herself. The clocks outside were striking the hour of midnight, but the roar of the Strand was going on still as if it were high noon. A sudden resolve came to the woman. She would go out at once and
