What did it mean? She was seized with a sudden energy, a sudden desire for knowledge—she wanted to share a greater portion of his life. What connection had this melody with the sudden change that had come to him? What association had it with the adoption of this strenuous life of his lately? What had it to do with his resignation from the Foreign Office and from his clubs?
She was certain there must be some connection, and she was determined to discover what.
As she was in the dark she could not help him. She knew instinctively that to ask him would be of little use. He was of the type who preferred to play a lone hand.
She was his wife, she owed him something. She had brought unhappiness into his life, and she could do no less than strive to help him. She would want money.
She sat down and wrote a little note to her mother. She would take the three hundred pounds which were due from the broker; she even went so far as to hint that if this matter were not promptly settled by her parent she herself would see Mr. Warrell and conclude negotiations.
She had read in the morning paper the advertisement of a private detective agency, and for a while she was inclined to engage a man. But what special qualifications did private detectives have that she herself did not possess? It required no special training to use one’s brains and to exercise one’s logical faculties.
She had found a mission in life—the solution of this mystery which surrounded her husband like a cloud. She found herself feeling cheerful at the prospect of the work to which she had set her hand.
“You should find yourself an occupation,” Gilbert had said in his hesitating fashion.
She smiled, and wondered exactly what he would think if he knew the occupation she had found.
The little house in Hoxton which sheltered May and her grandfather was in a respectable little street in the main inhabited by the members of the artisan class. Small and humble as the dwelling was it was furnished in perfect taste. The furniture was old in the more valuable and more attractive sense of the word.
Old man Wing propped up in his armchair sat by a small fire in the room which served as kitchen and dining-room. May was busy with her sewing.
“My dear,” said the old man in his gentle voice. “I do not think you had better go out again tonight.”
“Why not, grandpa?” asked the girl without looking up from her work.
“Well, it is probably selfishness on my part,” he said, “but somehow I do not want to be left alone. I am expecting a visitor.”
“A visitor!”
Visitors were unusual at No. 9 Pexton Street, Hoxton. The only visitor they knew was the rent man who called with monotonous regularity every Monday morning.
“Yes,” said her grandfather hesitatingly, “I think you remember the gentleman; you saw him some time ago.”
“Not Mr. Standerton?”
The old man shook his head.
“No, not Mr. Standerton,” he said, “but you will recall how at Epsom a rather nice man helped you out of a crowd after a race?”
“I remember,” she said.
“His name is Wallis,” said the old man, “and I met him by accident today when I was shopping.”
“Wallis,” she repeated.
Old Wing was silent for a while, then he asked—
“Do you think, my dear, we could take a lodger?”
“Oh, no,” protested the girl. “Please not!”
“I find the rent rather heavy,” said her grandfather, shaking his head, “and this Mr. Wallis is a quiet sort of person and not likely to give us any trouble.”
Still the girl was not satisfied.
“I would rather we didn’t,” she said. “I am quite sure we can earn enough to keep the house going without that kind of assistance. Lodgers are nuisances. I do not suppose Mrs. Gamage would like it.”
Mrs. Gamage was the faded neighbour who came in every morning to help straighten the house.
The girl saw the old man’s face fall and went round to him, putting her arm around his shoulder.
“Do not bother, grandpa dear,” she said, “if you want a lodger you shall have one. I think it would be rather nice to have somebody in the house who could talk to you when I am out.”
There was a knock at the door.
“That must be our visitor,” she said, and went to open it. She recognised the man who stood in the doorway.
“May I come in?” he asked. “I wanted to see your grandfather on a matter of business. I suppose you are Miss Wing.”
She nodded.
“Come in,” she said, and led the way to the kitchen.
“I will not keep you very long,” said Mr. Wallis. “No, thank you, I will stand while I am here. I want to find a quiet lodging for a friend of mine. At least,” he went on, “he is a man in whom I am rather interested, a very quiet sobersides individual who will be out most of the day, and possibly out most of the night too.” He smiled. “He is a—” He hesitated. “He is a taxicab driver, to be exact,” he said, “though he does not want this fact to be well known because he has seen—er—better days.”
“We have only a very small room we can give your friend,” said May, “perhaps you would like to see it.”
She took him up to the spare bedroom which they had used on very rare occasions for the accommodation of the few visitors who had been their guests. The room was neat and clean, and George Wallis nodded approvingly.
“I should like nothing better than this for myself,” he said.
He himself suggested a higher price than she asked, and insisted upon paying a month in advance.
“I have told the man to call, he ought to be
