Jim Steele was about to leave his little flat in Featherdale Mansions that morning when he was met at the door by a district messenger carrying a large parcel and a bulky letter. He at once recognized the handwriting of Eunice and carried the parcel into his study. The letter was written hurriedly and was full of apologies. As briefly as possible Eunice had related the events of the night.
“I cannot imagine that the chocolates had anything to do with it, but somehow you are communicating your prejudice against Digby Groat to me. I have no reason whatever to suspect him of any bad design toward me, and in sending these I am merely doing as you told me, to communicate everything unusual. Aren’t I an obedient girl! And, please, Jim, will you take me out to dinner tonight. It is ‘my night out,’ and I’d love to have a leisurely meal with you, and I’m simply dying to talk about the Blue Hand! Isn’t it gorgeously mysterious! What I shall try to catch up some of my arrears of sleep this afternoon so that I shall be fresh and brilliant.” (She had written “and beautiful” in mockery but had scratched it out.)
Jim Steele whistled. Hitherto he had regarded the Blue Hand as a convenient and accidental method which the unknown had chosen for his or her signature. Now, however, it obtained a new significance. The Blue Hand had been chosen deliberately and for some reason which must be known to one of the parties concerned. To Digby Groat? Jim shook his head. Somehow he knew for certain that the Blue Hand would be as much of a mystery to Digby Groat as it was to the girl and himself. He had no particular reason for thinking this. It was one of those immediate instincts which carry their own conviction. But who else was concerned? He determined to ask his partner that morning if the Blue Hand suggested anything to him.
In the meantime there were the chocolates. He examined the box carefully. The sweetmeats were beautifully arranged and the box bore the label of a well-known West End confectioner. He took out three or four of the chocolates, placed them carefully in an envelope, and put the envelope in his pocket. Then he set forth for the city. As he closed his own door his eye went to the door on the opposite side of the landing, where dwelt Mrs. Fane and the mysterious Madge Benson. The door was ajar and he thought he heard the woman’s voice on the ground floor below talking to the porter of the flats.
His foot was extended to descend the first of the stairs when from the flat came a sharp scream and a voice: “Madge, Madge, help!”
Without a second’s hesitation he pushed open the door and ran down the passage. There were closed doors on either side, but the last on the right was open and a thin cloud of smoke was pouring forth. He rushed in, just as the woman, who was lying on the bed, was rising on her elbow as though she were about to get up, and tearing down the blazing curtains at one of the windows, stamped out the fire. It was all over in a few seconds and he had extinguished the last spark of fire from the blackened lace before he looked round at the occupant of the bed, who was staring at him wide-eyed.
She was a woman of between forty and forty-five, he judged, with a face whose delicate moulding instantly impressed him. He thought he had seen her before, but knew that he must have been mistaken. The big eyes, grey and luminous, the dark brown hair in which a streak of grey had appeared, the beautiful hands that lay on the coverlet, all of these he took in at one glance.
“I’m very greatly obliged to you, Mr. Steele,” said the lady in a voice that was little above a whisper. “That is the second accident we have had. A spark from one of the engines must have blown in through the open window.”
Just beneath her was the cutting of the London, Midland and Scottish Railway, and Jim, who had watched the heavily laden trains toiling slowly and painfully up the steep incline, had often wondered if there was any danger from the showers of sparks which the engines so frequently threw up.
“I must apologize for my rather rough intrusion,” he said with his sweet smile. “I heard your screams. You are Mrs. Fane, aren’t you?”
She nodded, and there was admiration in the eyes that surveyed his well-knit figure.
“I won’t start a conversation with you under these embarrassing circumstances,” said Jim with a laugh, “but I’d like to say how sorry I am that you are so ill, Mrs. Fane. Could I send you some more books?”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “You have done almost enough.”
He heard the door close as the servant, unconscious that anything was wrong, came in, and heard her startled exclamation as she smelt the smoke. Coming out into the passage he met Madge Benson’s astonished face.
A few words explained his presence and the woman hustled him to the door a little unceremoniously.
“Mrs. Fane is not allowed to see visitors, sir,” she said. “She gets so excited.”
“What is the matter with her?” asked Jim, rather amused at the unmistakable ejection.
“Paralysis in both legs,” said Madge Benson, and Jim uttered an exclamation of pity.
“Don’t think I’m not grateful to you, Mr. Steele,” said the woman earnestly; “when I saw that smoke coming out into the passage my heart nearly stopped beating. That is the second accident we have had.”
She was so anxious for him to be off that he made no attempt to continue talking.
So that was Mrs. Fane, thought Jim, as he strode along to his office. A singularly beautiful woman. The pity of it! She was still young and in the bloom of health save for this terrible affliction.
Jim had a big heart for suffering humanity, and especially for women and children on whom the burden of sickness fell. He was halfway to the office when he remembered that Mrs. Fane had recognized him and called him by name! How could she have known him—she who had never left her sick-room?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Mr. Groat will not be down to breakfast. He was working very late, miss.”
Eunice nodded. She preferred the conversation of Digby Groat to the veiled familiarity of his shrewd-faced servant. It would be difficult for her to define in what way Jackson offended her. Outwardly he was respect itself, and she could not recall any term or word he had employed to which she could reasonably take offence. It was the assurance of the man, his proprietorial attitude, which irritated her. He reminded her of a boarding-house at which she had once stayed, where the proprietor acted as butler and endeavoured, without success, to combine the deference of the servant with the authority of the master.
“You were out very early this morning, miss,” said Jackson with his sly smile as he changed her plates.
“Is there any objection to my going out before breakfast?” asked Eunice, her anger rising.
“None at all, miss,” said the man blandly. “I hope I haven’t offended you, only I happened to see you coming back.”
She had been out to send the parcel and the letter to Jim, the nearest district messenger office being less than a quarter of a mile from Grosvenor Square. She opened her lips to speak and closed them again tightly. There was no reason in the world why she should excuse herself to the servant.
Jackson was not ready to take a rebuff, and besides, he had something important to communicate.
“You weren’t disturbed last night, were you, miss?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” demanded Eunice, looking with a start.
His keen eye was on her and without any reason she felt guilty.
“Somebody was having a joke here last night, miss,” he said, “and the governor is as wild as… well, he’s mad!”
She put down her knife and fork and sat back in her chair.