On these facts I reflected as I sauntered down the court, on the strange phenomenon of an old-world hamlet with its ancient population lingering in the very heart of the noisy city; an island of peace set in an ocean of unrest, an oasis in a desert of change and ferment.
My meditations brought me to the shabby gate in the high wall, and as I raised the latch and pushed it open, I saw Ruth standing at the door of the house talking to Miss Oman. She was evidently waiting for me, for she wore her somber black coat and hat and a black veil, and when she saw me she came out, closing the door after her, and holding out her hand.
“You are punctual,” said she. “St. Dunstan’s clock is striking now.”
“Yes,” I answered. “But where is your father?”
“He has gone to bed, poor old dear. He didn’t feel well enough to come, and I did not urge him. He is really very ill. This dreadful suspense will kill him if it goes on much longer.”
“Let us hope it won’t,” I said, but with little conviction, I fear, in my tone.
It was harrowing to see her torn by anxiety for her father, and I yearned to comfort her. But what was there to say? Mr. Bellingham was breaking up visibly under the stress of the terrible menace that hung over his daughter, and no words of mine could make the fact less manifest.
We walked silently up the court. The lady at the window greeted us with a smiling salutation, Mr. Finneymore removed his pipe and raised his cap, receiving a gracious bow from Ruth in return, and then we passed through the covered way into Fetter Lane, where my companion paused and looked about her.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“The detective,” she answered quietly. “It would be a pity if the poor man should miss me after waiting so long. However, I don’t see him.” And she turned away toward Fleet Street. It was an unpleasant surprise to me that her sharp eyes detected the secret spy upon her movements; and the dry, sardonic tone of her remark pained me too, recalling, as it did, the frigid self-possession that had so repelled me in the early days of our acquaintance. And yet I could not but admire the cool unconcern with which she faced her horrible peril.
“Tell me a little more about this conference,” she said, as we walked down Fetter Lane. “Your note was rather more concise than lucid; but I suppose you wrote it in a hurry.”
“Yes, I did. And I can’t give you any details now. All I know is that Doctor Norbury has had a letter from a friend of his in Berlin, an Egyptologist, as I understand, named Lederbogen, who refers to an English acquaintance of his and Norbury’s whom he saw in Vienna about a year ago. He cannot remember the Englishman’s name, but from some of the circumstances Norbury seems to think that he is referring to your Uncle John. Of course, if this should turn out to be really the case, it would set everything straight; so Thorndyke was anxious that you and your father should meet Norbury and talk it over.”
“I see,” said Ruth. Her tone was thoughtful but by no means enthusiastic.
“You don’t seem to attach much importance to the matter,” I remarked.
“No. It doesn’t seem to fit the circumstances. What is the use of suggesting that poor Uncle John is alive—and behaving like an imbecile, which he certainly was not—when his dead body has actually been found?”
“But,” I suggested lamely, “there may be some mistake. It may not be his body after all.”
“And the ring?” she asked, with a bitter smile.
“That may be just a coincidence. It was a copy of a well-known form of antique ring. Other people may have had copies made as well as your uncle. Besides,” I added with more conviction, “we haven’t seen the ring. It may not be his at all.”
She shook her head. “My dear Paul,” she said quietly, “it is useless to delude ourselves. Every known fact points to the certainty that it is his body. John Bellingham is dead: there can be no doubt of that. And to everyone except his unknown murderer and one or two of my own loyal friends, it must seem that his death lies at my door. I realized from the beginning that the suspicion lay between George Hurst and me; and the finding of the ring fixes it definitely on me. I am only surprised that the police have made no move yet.”
The quiet conviction of her tone left me for a while speechless with horror and despair. Then I recalled Thorndyke’s calm, even confident, attitude, and I hastened to remind her of it.
“There is one of your friends,” I said, “who is still undismayed. Thorndyke seems to anticipate no difficulties.”
“And yet,” she replied, “he is ready to consider a forlorn hope like this. However, we shall see.”
I could think of nothing more to say, and it was in gloomy silence that we pursued our way down Inner Temple Lane and through the dark entries and tunnel-like passages that brought us out, at length, by the Treasury.
“I don’t see any light in Thorndyke’s chambers,” I said, as we crossed King’s Bench Walk; and I pointed out the row of windows all dark and blank.
“No; and yet the shutters are not closed. He must be out.”
“He can’t be after making an appointment with you and your father. It is most mysterious. Thorndyke is so, very punctilious about his engagements.”
The mystery was solved, when we reached the landing, by a slip of paper fixed by a tack on the iron-bound “oak.”
“A note for
