I will waste no words in a description of our proceedings. There was no difficulty in finding the house in which the kind maiden sisters had resided, and from the street in which it was situated there was but one outlet to the open country. From the time occupied by Emilia in her flight on that never-to-be-forgotten night I judge that she must have walked some eleven or twelve miles, and at about that distance from the town lay the river Arbor. There we halted on the second day of our journey, and from that spot our real difficulties began. There was the hill Emilia had mounted, on the crown of which she had fallen in a state of exhaustion, with the river stretching to the left of her. It was inevitable that my sister should be taken into our confidence, and in the distressing reminiscences which the scene recalled to Emilia she was a true solace to the poor lady. I gently wooed her to describe the impressions of that terrible night's wanderings, and had any doubts been in my mind as to the truth of her story the pathos of that recital would have effectually dispelled them. But I entertained no doubts, and more strongly than ever did I resolve to champion her cause and not to relinquish it till success rewarded me, or absolute failure stared me in the face. As Emilia's suffering tones fell upon my ears I could almost hear the tinkling bells of the horses in the wagon and the driver's kindly exhortations to his cattle. He came in view, in my fancy, and spoke to Emilia, and receiving no encouraging answer, passed down the hill with his team. He returned and addressed her again, and she implored him to save her from the river. Supported by him, she descended the hill, and was lifted into the wagon, where she lay in a blind stupor of forgetfulness and insensibility. I declare that I saw the pictures of this human agony as if they were actually presented to my sight. As for my good sister, she was continually wiping the tears from her eyes, and when we reached the bottom of the hill, and Emilia said, "It was here the wagon stood, I think," she pressed the unfortunate lady in her arms, and they mingled their tears together.
It was at this spot, I repeat, that our real difficulties began, for at about a couple of hundred yards along the road the wagon must have taken (there being no other) it branched out in three directions, north, south, and east. Now, which road led to the wagoner's home?
Emilia could not inform us. We took one, the broadest--though why he should have selected the broadest instead of the narrowest I cannot explain, all three roads being equally available for horse traffic--and pursued it for a mile or so, and were confronted by four cross roads, which multiplied our difficulty. I will not enlarge upon the labor of this perplexing enterprise. It is sufficient to say that at the end of the twelfth day I was compelled to confess that we were as far from success as on the first day of our journey. Of course I made innumerable inquiries, but I was speaking of eighteen years ago, and I could not elicit the slightest information of a reliable nature to guide me in the search we were prosecuting. I spared no labor, and although I was greatly discouraged I did not allow my companions to observe my despondency. At length I came to the conclusion that it would be useless to employ further time in the quest, and I told Emilia and my sister that we should return to London on the morrow. Emilia looked at me mournfully.
"Don't feel down-hearted," I said, with a cheerful smile. "This is the smallest arrow in my quiver. I have a surer one to adjust when we reach town."
It was touching when we arrived at my mother's house, to see the meeting between Emilia and her daughter. We left them to themselves awhile, and when they joined us I conveyed to Emilia a pressing request from my mother that they would stop with her as long as they remained in London. It needed persuasion to induce Emilia to comply, but she saw that Constance wished her to accept, and she did so with much grace, but with a humbleness of manner which powerfully affected me. Constance had some news to communicate. The Bordiers had arrived in London, and had visited her. I was impressed by a certain tremulousness in her voice as she spoke of them, but I made no comment upon it, not feeling myself warranted to intrude upon her confidence.
"My mother's house is open to your friends," I said. "They will be always welcome here."
She thanked me, and shortly afterward I was hurrying to the W. C. district, first to present myself at the office of the Evening Moon, and afterward to go to my chambers, where, in response to a telegram I had forwarded from the country, I expected a visitor.
[CHAPTER XLV.]
DR. PETERSSEN IS TRACKED.
The name of the visitor I expected, and who hopped up the stairs which led to my chambers half an hour after I entered them, was Bob Tucker. He is a friend of mine, with plenty of money at command, and has no need to work for a living; but he has a fad, if I may so express it. This fad lay in the detective line, and to give him a job in that direction was to bestow a favor upon him. He entered upon it con amore, and pursued it with a zest never to be found in the professional, who works by the job, or the hour, or the day. He has often said to me that if he were to lose his money he would start an office of his own and lead a jolly life. Whether that meant a jolly life to others is a doubtful point. Anyway, he is an enthusiastic young fellow of about six and twenty, and is never so happy as when he can adopt a disguise and hunt something or somebody down. He objects to be called Robert, which he insists is not his proper name. He distinctly remembers, he avers, being christened Bob, so Bob Tucker he is to all his friends. So far as I am personally concerned, this is convenient to me, my name being Robert, which I prefer to Bob.