“He was much too clever for me,” she replied. “I had barely knocked and said, ‘Mrs. Raymond.’ And she said, ‘Oh, who is it?’—‘Mrs. Sharpe, from Mrs. Paulet. Are you better?’—‘I am quite well. I never was ill. Hush!’ And I heard her cabin door opened, and he came in; he did not talk at first, but I knew he was there. After a time he said, ‘I have brought your sleeping draught.’ I had my ear to the berth. ‘Oh, please, please no,’ she cried; ‘I don’t want it, and the other made me so heavy for two days. Oh, anything but the sleeping draught!’ and she began to sob. ‘Take it!’ you should have heard his voice; it actually frightened me through the boards. And then I crept stealthily away, feeling quite queer and shaky, not to say guilty.”
“We get in to-morrow at nine o’clock,” I said. “Of course we shall see her then. We will watch and waylay them. Poor girl! what does he mean by shutting her up and drugging her?”
The steamer arrived in dock at six—three hours before her time, and before we were up. What a bustle there was! After our seven-o’clock Chotah hazree, packing our small parcels and wraps, receiving our letters and friends—we are a selfish world—it was breakfast-time ere I thought of the poor prisoner. I went to the cabin door and knocked; no answer. I turned the handle; the door opened, the cabin was empty!
“How is this?” I said to the stewardess Theresa, a fat, oily-tongued Italian.
“Oh, the signora was very, very sick, and the good signor was so attentive, he waited on her himself (he had given Theresa a handsome tip—that I could see). He was so anxious about her, that as soon as we were in dock, he carried her on deck in his arms, well wrapped up. There was a doolie waiting with eight bearers. He placed her in it with his own hands, and she was taken away.”
On further inquiry, a doolie and eight bearers, accompanied by a respectable elderly servant, had been seen going towards the city, and there all trace of the Raymonds was lost.
Raymond was, of course, a fictitious name. The unhappy girl, and the mysterious stranger, had totally disappeared; none of their fellow-passengers ever heard of them again. They were both engulfed in that wide and extremely vague address known as “Up country.” To this day, Mrs. Sharpe and I, when we meet, shake our heads together over a certain little mutual intrigue, and jointly wonder what has become of Mrs. Raymond.
THE KHITMATGAR.
“Whence and what art thou, execrable shape?”—Milton.