“That is possible,” he admitted; “but I do not believe it. The man’s face was sad enough, but it was not the face of a madman.”
“You did see his face, then?”
“On the last night of the play,” he continued. “You remember you were going on to Lady Truton’s, so I did not come behind. But I had a fancy to see you for a moment, and I came round into Pitt Street just as you were driving off. On the other side of the way this man was standing watching you!”
She looked at him with a suddenly kindled interest—or was it fear?—in her dark eyes. The colour had left her cheeks; she was white to the lips.
“Watching me?”
“Yes. As your carriage drove off he stood watching it. I don’t know what prompted me, but I crossed the street to speak to him. He seemed such a lone, mournful figure standing there half dazed, shabby, muttering softly to himself. But when he saw me coming, he gave one half-frightened look at me and ran, literally ran down the street on to the Strand. I could not follow,—the police would have stopped him. So he disappeared.”
“You saw his face. What was he like?”
Berenice had leaned right back amongst the yielding cushions of her divan, and he could scarcely see her face. Yet her voice sounded to him strange and forced. He looked at her in some surprise.
“I had a glimpse of it. It was an ordinary face enough; in fact, it disappointed me a little. But the odd part of it was that it seemed vaguely familiar to me. I have seen it before, often. Yet, try as I will, I cannot recollect where, or under what circumstances.”
“At Oxford,” she suggested. “By the bye, what was your college?”