Part 46 (1/2)

Then the coal, consumed by its own power, fell together in a formless heap and the picture vanished. Louisa closed her eyes, for the heat in them was intolerable. But only for a moment: for now her mind was made up.

Ever since she had parted from Luke, one thought had been dominant in her mind, one memory had obtruded itself beyond all others, taking definite shape in the visions conjured up by the glowing embers of the fire--that night in Brussels!--the great unforgettable night, on which her whole life's history seemed to find its birth-time.

One great resolve, too, had now taken definite shape.

Louisa rang for her maid, and asked for hat and cloak. The maid--somewhat horrified that her mistress should think of going out alone at so late an hour--was too well drilled to offer advice or make comment. She brought a warm wrap and a closely fitting, simple hat, and respectfully wished to know when she should expect her mistress home.

”In about an hour's time,” said Louisa. ”Come down into the hall with me, and tell the porter to call me a cab.”

Then she went down, accompanied by her maid. A cab was called, and she directed the driver to 56 Chester Terrace.

The address was that of Lady Ryder's town house. The maid--feeling more satisfied--went up stairs again.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

PEOPLE DON'T DO THAT SORT OF THING

Lady Ryder was out of town. She was staying at a country house in the Midlands, chaperoning her nieces--Louisa's twin-sisters--but Sir Thomas Ryder was at home.

It was for him that Louisa had asked when the butler opened the door in answer to her ring.

”Sir Thomas is in the library, miss,” said the man. ”Will you come into the drawing room? and I'll tell Sir Thomas you are here, miss.”

”No!” she said, ”don't announce me. I'll go to the library.”

Sir Thomas put down the paper which he had been reading, when his niece entered. He did not seem at all astonished to see her. No doubt the exercise of his profession had taught him never to be surprised at anything in life. He rose when he recognized who it was, and carefully folded his eyegla.s.ses and slipped them into their case and into his waistcoat pocket. Then he said:

”My dear Louisa, this is quite unexpected! Is your father with you?”

”No,” she replied, ”I came alone. May I sit down?”

”Certainly, my dear child,” he said genially, and himself wheeled a capacious arm-chair round to the fire.

”I am not disturbing you, Uncle Ryder?”

”No! no! Take off your cloak, won't you? I was only at the evening paper, preparatory to turning in early.”

She glanced at the paper on the table: that page was uppermost that bore the startling headline, in unusually large type: ”The Murder in the Taxicab. Sensational Developments.” The chief of the Criminal Investigation Department studied the accounts in the newspapers, the opinion of pressmen and reporters. Everything interested him: he weighed everything in his mind; no silly advice, no empty t.i.ttle-tattle, was ever dismissed by him without its due meed of consideration.

Uncle and niece now sat opposite each other, facing the hearth. He looked straight into the fire, knowing that she would not wish him to see the misery in her face.

”Will you have something, Lou?” he asked kindly. ”A cup of tea or something?”

”No, thank you, uncle. We had dinner, and father has gone to the club.

I came to see you about Luke.”

”Yes?” he said.

”All along,” she continued, ”ever since father saw you yesterday, I wanted to speak to you. Silly conventionality kept me back.”