Part 19 (1/2)

”No,” I said, ”but will you be good enough to ask whether I can see her? My name is Mr. James Nicholson. I wish to consult her professionally.”

”If you will step in here, sir, I will inquire. Mademoiselle very seldom sees any one without an appointment.”

He opened a door on the right and ushered me into a small sitting-room, the chief furniture of which appeared to be a couch, one or two magnificent bowls of growing tulips and hyacinths, and an oak shelf which ran the whole length of the room and was crowded with books.

While the boy was away I amused myself by examining the t.i.tles. There were a number of volumes on palmistry and on various branches of occultism, interspersed with several books of poetry and such unlikely works as _My Prison Life_, by Jabez Balfour, and Melville Lee's well-known _History of Police_.

It gave me rather an uncanny feeling for the moment to be confronted by the two latter, and I was just wondering whether a Bond Street palmist's clientele made such works of reference necessary, when the door opened and the page-boy reappeared.

”If you will kindly come this way, sir, Mademoiselle will see you,” he announced.

I followed him down the pa.s.sage and into another room hung with heavy curtains that completely shut out the daylight. A small rose-coloured lamp burning away steadily in the corner threw a warm glow over everything, and lit up the low table of green stone in the centre, on which rested a large crystal ball in a metal frame. Except for two curiously carved chairs, there was no other furniture in the room.

Closing the door noiselessly behind him, the boy went out again. I stood there for a little while looking about me; then pulling up a chair I was just sitting down when a slight sound attracted my attention. A moment later a curtain at the end of the room was drawn slowly aside, and there, standing in the gap, I saw the slim figure of a girl, dressed in a kind of long dark Eastern tunic.

I jumped to my feet, and as I did so an exclamation of amazement broke involuntarily from my lips. For an instant I remained quite still, clutching the back of the chair and staring like a man in a trance.

Unless I was mad the girl in front of me was Joyce.

CHAPTER XI

BRIDGING THREE YEARS OF SEPARATION

It was the unexpectedness of the thing that threw me off my guard.

With a savage effort I recovered myself almost at once, but it was too late to be of any use. At the sound of my voice all the colour had left Joyce's face. Her hands went up to her breast, and with a low cry she stepped forward and then stood there white and swaying, gazing at me with wide-open, half-incredulous eyes.

”My G.o.d!” she whispered; ”it's you--Neil!”

I think she would have fallen, but I came to her side, and putting my arm round her shoulders gently forced her into one of the chairs. Then I knelt in front of her and took her hands in mine. I saw it was no good trying to deceive her.

”I didn't know,” I said simply; ”I followed George here.”

”What have they done to you?” she moaned. ”What have they done to you, my Neil? And your hands--oh, your poor dear hands!”

She burst out crying, and bending down pressed her face against my fingers.

”Don't, Joyce,” I said, a little roughly. ”For G.o.d's sake don't do that.”

Half unconsciously I pulled away my hands, which three years in Dartmoor had certainly done nothing to improve.

My abrupt action seemed to bring Joyce to herself. She left off sobbing, and with a sudden hurried glance round the room jumped up from her chair.

”I must speak to Jack--now at once,” she whispered. ”He mustn't let any one else into the flat.”

She stopped for a moment to dry her eyes, which were still wet with tears, and then walking quickly to the door disappeared into the pa.s.sage. She was only gone for a few seconds. I just had time to get to my feet when she came back into the room, and shutting the door behind her, turned the key in the lock. Then with a little gasp she leaned against the wall. For the first time I realized what an amazingly beautiful girl she had grown into.

”Neil, Neil,” she said, stretching out her hands; ”is it really you!”