He felt miserable and would have been glad to talk his trouble over with somebody. But there was nobody he could think of, nobody whom he liked well enough, unless it was—Mrs. Fane. He half smiled at the thought and wondered what that invalid lady would think of him if he knocked her up at this hour to pour his woes into her sympathetic ears! The sweet, sad-faced woman had made a very deep impression upon him; he was surprised to find how often she came into his thoughts.
Halfway up Baker Street he brought his car to a walking pace and turned. He had remembered Selengers, and it had just occurred to him that at this hour he was more likely to profit by a visit than by a daytime call. It was nearly two o’clock when he stopped in Brade Street and descended.
He remembered the janitor had told him that there was a side entrance, which was used alone by Selengers. He found the narrow court which led to the back of the building, and after a little search discovered what was evidently the door which would bring him through the courtyard to the back of Brade Street Buildings. He tried the door, and to his surprise it was unlocked. Hearing the soft pad of the policeman’s feet in the street, and not wishing to be discovered trying strange doors at that hour, he passed through and closed it behind him, waiting till the officer had passed before he continued his investigations.
In preparation for such a contingency, he had brought with him a small electric lamp, and with the aid of this he found his way across the paved yard to a door which opened into the building. This was locked, he discovered to his dismay. There must be another, he thought, and began looking for it. There were windows overlooking the courtyard, but these were so carefully shuttered that it was impossible to tell whether lights shone behind them or not.
He found the other entrance at an angle of two walls, tried it, and to his delight it opened. He was in a short stone corridor and at the farther end was a barred gate. Short of this and to the right was a green door. He turned the handle softly, and as it opened he saw that a brilliant light was burning within. He pushed it farther and stepped into the room.
He was in an office which was unfurnished except for a table and a chair, but it was not the desolate appearance of the apartment which held his eye.
As he had entered a woman, dressed from head to foot in black, was passing to a second room, and at the sound of the door she turned quickly and drew her veil over her face. But she had delayed that action a little too long, and Jim, with a gasp of amazement, had looked upon the face of that “incurable invalid” Mrs. Fane!
XIX
“Who are you, and what do you want?” she asked.
He saw her hand drop to the fold of her dress, then: “Mr. Steele,” she said as she recognized him.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Jim as he closed the door behind him, “but I wanted to see you pretty badly.”
“Sit down, Mr. Steele. Did you see my—” she hesitated, “see my face?”
He nodded gravely.
“And did you recognize me?”
He nodded again.
“Yes, you are Mrs. Fane,” he said quietly.
Slowly her hands rose and she unpinned the veil.
“You may lock the door,” she said; “yes, I am Mrs. Fane.”
He was so bewildered, despite his seeming self-possession, that he had nothing to say.
“You probably think that I have been practising a wicked and mean deception,” she said, “but there are reasons—excellent reasons—why I should not be abroad in the daytime, and why, if I were traced to Featherdale Mansions, I should not be identified with the woman who walks at night.”
“Then it was you who left the key?” he said.
She nodded, and all the time her eyes never left his face.
“I am afraid I cannot enlighten you any farther,” she said, “partly because I am not prepared at this moment to reveal my hand and partly because there is so little that I could reveal if I did.”
And only a few minutes before he had been thinking how jolly it would be if he could lay all his troubles and perplexities before her. It was incredible that he should be talking with her at this midnight hour in a prosaic city office. He looked at the delicate white hand which rested against her breast and smiled, and she, with her quick perceptions, guessed the cause of his amusement.
“You are thinking of the Blue Hand?” she said quickly.
“Yes, I am thinking of the Blue Hand,” said Jim.
“You have an idea that that is just a piece of chicanery and that the hand has no significance?” she asked quietly.
“Curiously enough, I don’t think that,” said Jim. “I believe behind that symbol is a very interesting story, but you must tell it in your own time, Mrs. Fane.”
She paced the room deep in thought, her hands clasped before her, her chin on her breast, and he waited, wondering how this strange discovery would develop.
“You came because you heard from South Africa that I had been making inquiries about the girl—she is not in danger?”
“No,” said Jim with a wry face. “At present I am in danger of having offended her beyond pardon.”
She looked at him sharply, but did not ask for an explanation.
“If you had thought my warnings were theatrical and meaningless, I should not have blamed you,” she said after a while, “but I had to reach her in some way that would impress her.”
“There is something I cannot understand, Mrs. Fane,” said Jim. “Suppose Eunice had told Digby Groat of this warning?”
She smiled.
“He knows,” she said quietly, and Jim remembered the hand on the laboratory door. “No, he is not the
