have been separated from my friends, and am a stranger to London,” she replied. “You will laugh,” she added, “but I am really lost, for I don’t know my way back to my friends’ house.”
“You know the address, I suppose?” I laughed, for to me the idea of one being thus lost in London was amusing.
“Yes: Ellerdale Street.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, “except that it’s a long way from here; somewhere on the other side of London. We came by train.”
“Ellerdale Street,” I repeated reflectively. “I’ve never heard of it.” There are, of course, thousands of streets in the suburbs of which nobody ever hears, save when somebody commits a crime of more than ordinary violence, and papers give the unknown thoroughfare undue prominence.
“But the strange thing is that my friends, two ladies, should have disappeared so quickly,” she went on, pausing on the pavement before the theatre as we went out and gazing blankly about her. “They must surely have missed me, and if so, one would think they would remain till everybody had gone, and then search for me.”
“Yes,” I said, “it is certainly rather remarkable,” and together we walked to the corner of Leicester Street, where there is another exit of the theatre, but my pretty companion could discover neither of the ladies who had accompanied her.
Her voice was low and refined, her well-gloved hands small; yet her severe style of dress seemed to speak of poverty which she would fain conceal. She wore no jewellery, not even a brooch; and I fell to wondering whether she might be a governess, or perhaps a shop-assistant who had come from a provincial town to “better herself” in London.
For fully a quarter of an hour we strolled together, backwards and forwards before the railings of the Empire, which soon became dark and deserted, until we were practically the only loiterers. It certainly struck me as more than strange that her companions, knowing her to be a stranger to London, should thus leave her to her own devices in Leicester Square at midnight. Again, it was curious that she herself should only know the name of the road, and not the district.
“You said your friends live in Ellerdale Street,” I exclaimed at last, after we had been chatting about the performance, and she had criticised the singers with an artlessness which betrayed that she was entirely unaccustomed to the music-hall. “The best course will be to ask a cabman.”
A hansom was standing at the kerb.
“Do you know of any street named Ellerdale Street?” I asked the driver.
“No, sir, I don’t,” he answered, after a pause, during which time he thought deeply. “There’s Ellerslie Road up in Shep’erd’s Bush, and Ellesmere Road out at Bow, but I don’t know of any others.” Then, turning to another man on a cab behind him, he asked:
“I say, Sandy, do you know Ellerdale Street?”
“No, don’t know it at all. Ask a policeman,” was the other’s gruff response.
“I’m giving you a lot of trouble,” my companion said apologetically. “It is really too bad, and you must think me very foolish to get separated from my friends like this. How it occurred I really don’t know. They went out in front of me, and the crowd kept me from coming out of my seat. Then, when I got into the promenade I found they had vanished, as if by magic.”
“It’s evident that the street is not well-known,” I said, “for hansom-cab drivers are really encyclopaedias of London geography, having to pass an examination in it before being granted a driver’s licence by the police. It must be somewhere far out in the suburbs.”
Then a thought suddenly occurred to me.
“The only thing I can suggest,” I continued, “is that you should walk round to my chambers in Charing Cross Road, for I have there a Directory which will no doubt give us some clue to the whereabouts of your friends.”
She paused, and looked at me rather strangely I thought. I had expected her to be eager to act as I suggested, but found her somewhat loth to accompany me. Yet, was this not natural? I was an utter stranger. Perhaps, too, she had seen some drama in the provinces where the villain invariably wears a starched shirt-front and smokes cigarettes, for it seemed as though she held me in fear.
“You are very kind,” she answered, “but I really think – ”
“No,” I said, divining her thoughts. “It is impossible for you to wander the streets until morning. You must allow me to help you. Come.”
“I’ve been thinking it would be best, perhaps, for me to go to an hotel,” she said.
“As you wish,” I replied. “But you must find out this unknown street either now or to-morrow morning, and if you take my advice you will lose no time in ascertaining where your friends really live, for they will be anxious about you.”
For a few moments she reflected, then exclaimed —
“Yes, you’re right after all. I’m sure you are extremely kind.”
And together we crossed the Square and continued along Cranbourne Street to the colossal block of redbrick flats wherein my chambers were situated.
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 Punch artists 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
