done by Thorndyke's clients?
All of which were curious and puzzling questions which I put to myself, one by one, and had to dismiss unanswered. And then I came to the practical question, to which I had to find an answer, and which was: Could I, under the existing circumstances, accede to Mr. Courtland's request? To go outside the precincts of the Inn was, I recognized, absolutely forbidden; but I had given no actual promise to remain in our chambers, nor had I been positively forbidden to leave them. Thorndyke had advised me to remain indoors, and his advice had been given so pointedly and with so evident a desire that it should be followed that I had not hitherto even thought of leaving our premises. But this was an unforeseen contingency; and the question was, did it alter my position in regard to Thorndyke's advice?
I think I have never been so undecided in my life. On the one hand, I was strongly tempted to keep the appointment. The prospect of triumphantly handing to Thorndyke a five-guinea fee which I had earned as his deputy appealed to me with almost irresistible force. On the other hand, my knowledge of Thorndyke did not support this appeal. I knew him to be a man to whom a principle was much more important than any chance benefit gained by its abandonment, and my inner consciousness told me that he would be better pleased by a strict adherence to our understanding than by the increment of five guineas.
So my thoughts oscillated, to and fro, now impelling me to risk it and earn the fee, and now urging me to keep to the letter of my instructions; and, meanwhile, the time ran on and the hour of the consultation approached What decision I should have reached, in the end, it is impossible to say. As matters turned out, I never reached any decision at all, for, just as the Treasury clock struck a quarter past five, I heard a light, quick step on our landing and immediately after a soft but hurried knock at the door.
I strode quickly across the room and threw the door open. And then I started back with an exclamation of astonishment. For the visitor—who stood full in the light of the landing-lamp—was a woman; and the woman was Mrs. Samway.
As I stood gazing at her in amazement, she slipped past me into the room and softly shut the door. And then I saw very plainly that there was something amiss, for she was as pale as death, and had a dreadful, frightened, hunted look which haunts me even now as I write. She was somewhat dishevelled, too, and, though it was a bitter evening, her plump, shapely hands were ungloved and cold as ice, as I noted when I took them in mine. "Are you alone?" she asked, peering uneasily at the door of the little office.
"Yes. Quite alone," I replied.
She gazed at me with those strange, penetrating eyes of hers and said in a half-whisper: "How strange you look with that beard. I should hardly have known you if I had not expected—"
She stopped short, and, casting a strange, scared glance over her shoulder at the dark windows, whispered: "Can they see in? Can anyone see us from outside?"
"I shouldn't think so," I replied; but, nevertheless, I stepped over to the windows and drew the curtains. "That looks more comfortable, at any rate," said I. "And now tell me how in the name of wonder you knew I was here."
She grasped both my wrists and looked earnestly—almost fiercely—into my eyes. "Ask me no questions!" she exclaimed. "Ask me nothing! But listen. I have come here for a purpose. Has a letter been left here for you?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Asking you to go to a place in Fig-tree Court?"
"Good God!" I exclaimed. "How on earth—"
She shook my wrists impatiently in her strong grasp. "Answer me!" she exclaimed; " answer me!"
"Yes," I replied. "I was to go there at half-past five."
Again her strong grasp tightened on my wrists. "Humphrey," she said, in a low, earnest voice, "you are not to go. Do you hear me? You are not to go." And then, as I seemed to hesitate, she continued more urgently; "I ask you—I beg you to promise me that you won't."
I gazed at her in sheer amazement; but some instinct, some faint glimmer of understanding, restrained me from asking for any explanation. "Very well," I said. "I won't go if you say I'm not to."
"That is a promise?"
"Yes, it's a promise. Besides, it's nearly half-past already, so if I don't go now, the appointment falls through."
"And you won't go outside these rooms to-night. Promise me that, too."
"If I don't go to this lawyer, I shan't go out at all."
"And to-morrow, too. Give me your word that you won't let any sort of pretext draw you out of these rooms to-morrow, or the next day, or, in fact, until Dr. Thorndyke says you may."
For a few moments I was literally struck dumb with astonishment at her last words, and could do nothing but gaze at her in astounded silence. At length, recovering myself a little, I exclaimed: "My dear Mrs. Samway—," but she interrupted me.
"Don't call me by that horrible name! Give me my own name, Letitia; or," she added, a little shyly and in a soft, coaxing tone," call me Lettie. Won't you, Humphrey, just for this once? You needn't mind. You wouldn't if you knew. I should like, when I think of my friend—the only friend that I care for—to remember that he called me by my own name when he said good-bye. You'll think me silly and sentimental, but you needn't mind indulging me just once. It's the last time."
"The last time!" I repeated. "What do you mean by that, Lettie, and by speaking of our saying good-bye? Are you going away?"
"Yes, I am going away. I don't suppose you will ever see me again. I am going out of your life."
"Not out of my life, Lettie. We are always friends, even if we never see one another."
"Are we?" she said, looking up at me earnestly, "Perhaps it is so; but still, this is good-bye. I ought to say it and go; but O God!" she exclaimed with sudden passion, "I don't want to go—away from you, Humphrey, out into the cold and the dark!"
She buried her face against my shoulder, and I could feel that she was sobbing though she uttered no sound.
It was a dreadful situation. Instinctively certain though I was that her grief had a real and tragic basis, I could offer no word of comfort. For what was there to say? She was going, clearly, to a life of wretchedness without hope of any relief or change and without a single friend to cheer her loneliness. That much I could guess, vaguely and dimly. But it was enough. And it wrung my heart to witness her passion of grief and to be able to offer no more than a pressure of the hand.
After a few seconds she raised her head and looked in my face, with the tears still clinging to her lashes. "Humphrey," she said, laying her hands on my shoulders, "I have a few last words to say to you, and then I must go. Listen to me, dearest friend, and remember what I say When I am gone, people will tell you things and you will come to know others. People will say that I am a wicked woman, which is true enough, God knows. But if they say that I have done or connived at wickedness against you, try to believe that it was not as it seemed, and to forgive me for what I have done amiss. And say to yourself, 'This wicked woman would have willingly given her heart's blood for me.' Say that, Humphrey. It is true. I would gladly give my life to make you safe and happy. And try to think kindly of me in the evil report that will reach you sooner or later. Will you try, Humphrey?"
"My dear Lettie," I said," we are friends, now and always. Nothing that I hear shall alter that."
"I believe you," she said," and I thank you from my heart. And now I must go—I
