Chapter Two.
This Crucifix.
On ascending to the third floor, Simes, my man, opened the door and she advanced timidly down the tiny passage to my sitting-room. It was not a very large apartment, but I had furnished it comfortably a couple of years before, and it presented a rather cosy appearance with the table-cover and velvet portières of sage green to match, a couple of big roomy saddlebag chairs of club dimensions, a high, carved-oak buffet, with its strip of white cloth spread as daintily as in the dining-room of any well-appointed house, for Simes was an excellent man, as natty as a chamber-maid. He took a pride in keeping my rooms spick and span. An ex-trooper of Hussars, he had seen service with me in Egypt before I left the Service, and was a model servant, obeying with military precision, and was eminently trustworthy, save where whiskey was concerned. He could not be expected to resist the temptation of taking a drop from my tantalus on odd occasions.
Upon the walls of my room were a few choice pictures which I had purchased from time to time, together with a pencil caricature of myself drawn by one of the Punchartists who was an old friend, and a couple of plaques which had been given me by the lady who painted them. In the middle of the room stood the square table with a bowl of flowers in the centre, on one side of the fireplace a revolving bookstand, and on the other nearest the window, which looked down upon Charing Cross Road, a small triangular table of rosewood, whereon stood some curios which I had picked up during my pleasure trip round the world.
I give this detailed description of my own quarters because it will be found necessary in order to properly understand the story.
“What a pretty room!” was my fair unknown’s first exclamation.
“Do you think so? I’m glad you like it,” I laughed, for most of my visitors were in the habit of making similar observations. “Do sit down,” and I drew forward one of the big armchairs.
With a word of thanks she seated herself, and when I placed a hassock at her feet she stretched out one tiny foot upon it coquettishly, although with such natural grace that there was nothing fast about her.
I stood upon the hearthrug looking at her, and when our eyes met she laughed a bright, merry laugh, all the misgivings she had previously entertained having now vanished.
“First, you must be faint, for it is so late,” and touching the bell Simes instantly answered, and I ordered port wine and glasses.
She protested instantly, but on being pressed sipped half a glass and left the remainder.
We chatted on as Simes, who had been waiting on us, with a glance of wonder, left and closed the door.
Then, rising, I took down the Directory from the bookcase and opened it at the “Streets.” She rose from her chair, and gazed eagerly upon the great puzzling volume until I came to Ellerdale Street.
“Ellerdale Street, Lewisham,” I read aloud. “From Porson Street to Ermine Road. Do those names bring back to you any recollection of the whereabouts of your friends’ house?”
“No,” she reflected, with a perplexed expression. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“The street is apparently near Loampit Vale,” I said. “That would be the principal thoroughfare. You no doubt came from Lewisham Road Station by the Chatham and Dover Railway to Victoria—or perhaps to Ludgate Hill?”
She shook her head. Apparently she had not the slightest idea of the geography of London. Upon this point her mind was an utter blank.
“How long have you been in London?” I inquired.
“Nearly a week; but I’ve not been out before. My aunt has been ill,” she explained.
“Then you live in the country, I suppose?”
“Yes, I have lived in Warwickshire, but my home lately has been in France.”
“In France!” I exclaimed, surprised. “Where?”
“At Montgeron, not far from Paris.”
“And you have come to London on a visit?”
“No. I have come to live here,” she replied; adding, “It is absurd that the first evening I go out I am so utterly lost.
