“I will see you again. I am sorry,” and went out closing the door behind her.
The silence that followed was painful. Jim started three times to speak, but stopped as he realized the futility of explaining to the girl the reason of the woman’s presence. He could not tell her she was Lady Mary Danton.
“She called you ‘Jim,’ ” said the girl slowly. “Is she a friend of yours?”
“Er—yes,” he replied awkwardly. “She is Mrs. Fane, a neighbour.”
“Mrs. Fane,” repeated the girl, “but you told me she was paralysed and could not get up. You said she had never been out of doors for years.”
Jim swallowed something.
“She called you ‘Jim,’ ” said the girl again. “Are you very great friends?”
“Well, we are rather,” said Jim huskily. “The fact is, Eunice—”
“How did she come in?” asked the girl with a frown. “She must have let herself in with a key. Has she a key of your flat?”
Jim gulped.
“Well, as a matter of fact—” he began.
“Has she, Jim?”
“Yes, she has. I can’t explain, Eunice, but you’ve got—”
“I see,” she said quietly. “She is very pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is rather pretty,” admitted Jim miserably. “You see, we have business transactions together, and frequently I am out and she wants to get to my telephone. She has no telephone in her own flat, you see, Eunice,” he went on lamely.
“I see,” said the girl, “and she calls you ‘Jim’?”
“Because we are good friends,” he floundered. “Really, Eunice, I hope you are not putting any misconstruction upon that incident.”
She heaved a little sigh.
“I suppose it is all right, Jim,” she said, and pushed away her plate. “I don’t think I’ll wait any longer. Please don’t come back with me, I’d rather you didn’t. I can get a cab; there’s a rank opposite the flat, I remember.”
Jim cursed the accident which had brought the lady into his room at that moment and cursed himself that he had not made a clean breast of the whole thing, even at the risk of betraying Lady Mary.
He had done sufficient harm by his incoherent explanation and he offered no other as he helped the girl into her coat.
“You are sure you’d rather go alone?” he said miserably.
She nodded.
They were standing on the landing. Lady Mary’s front door was ajar and from within came the shrill ring of a telephone bell. She raised her grave eyes to Jim.
“Your friend has the key of your flat because she has no telephone of her own, didn’t you say, Jim?”
He made no reply.
“I never thought you would lie to me,” she said, and he watched her disappear down the staircase with an aching heart.
He had hardly reached his room and flung himself in his chair by the side of the tea-table, when Lady Mary followed him into the room.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I hadn’t the slightest idea she would be here.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Jim with a wan smile, “only it makes things rather awkward for me. I told her a lie and she found me out, or rather, your infernal telephone did, Lady Mary.”
“Then you were stupid,” was all the comfort she gave him.
“Why didn’t you stay?” he asked. “That made it look so queer.”
“There were many reasons why I couldn’t stay,” said Lady Mary. “Jim, do you remember the inquiries I made about this very girl, Eunice Weldon, and which you made too?”
He nodded.
He wasn’t interested in Eunice Weldon’s obvious parentage at that moment.
“You remember she was born at Rondebosch?”
“Yes,” he said listlessly. “Even she admits it,” he added with a feeble attempt at a jest.
“Does she admit this?” asked Lady Mary. She pushed a telegram across the table to Jim, and he picked it up and read:
“Eunice May Weldon died in Cape Town at the age of twelve months and three days, and is buried at Rosebank Cemetery. Plot No. 7963.”
XXV
Jim read the cablegram again, scarcely believing his eyes or his understanding.
“Buried at the age of twelve months,” he said incredulously, “but how absurd. She is here, alive, besides which, I recently met a man who knew the Weldons and remembered Eunice as a child. There is no question of substitution.”
“It is puzzling, isn’t it?” said Lady Mary softly, as she put the telegram in her bag. “But here is a very important fact. The man who sent me this cablegram is one of the most reliable private detectives in South Africa.”
Eunice Weldon was born, Eunice Weldon had died, and yet Eunice Weldon was very much alive at that moment, though she was wishing she were dead.
Jim leant his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his palm.
“I must confess that I am now completely rattled,” he said. “Then if the girl died, it is obvious the parents adopted another girl and that girl was Eunice. The question is, where did she come from, because there was never any question of her adoption, so far as she knew.”
She nodded.
“I have already cabled to my agent to ask him to inquire on this question of adoption,” she said, “and in the meantime the old idea is gaining ground, Jim.”
His eyes met hers.
“You mean that Eunice is your daughter?”
She nodded slowly.
“That circular scar on her wrist? You know nothing about it?”
She shook her head.
“It may have been done after”—she faltered—“after—I lost sight of her.”
“Lady Mary, will you explain how you came to lose sight of her?” asked Jim.
She shook her head.
“Not yet,” she said.
“Then perhaps you will
