When Fanks arrived at noon, Hersham, for health's sake, was digging in the garden; but, on seeing the detective, he came forward to greet his visitor. He was a slender, handsome young man of eight and twenty, or thereabouts; with curly, brown hair and blue eyes. He wore a moustache, but otherwise he was clean-shaven. Usually his face was pleasant and smiling, with a high colour and a genial expression. On this occasion he was rather pale, and there was an anxious look in his eyes which did not escape the detective. He had seen the same expression in the eyes of Binjoy.
"How are you, Fanks," said Hersham, with an obvious effort at lightness. "I see that you are punctual to the minute. I am glad of that; as I can't give you much time. I have an engagement with my editor at one-thirty."
"Oh, I can explain my business in half an hour," replied Fanks, lightly. "I won't take up more of your valuable time than I can help. You were astonished to get my note."
"Frankly speaking, I was," said Hersham, with an uneasy look. "I can't conceive what you want to see me about. I hope," he added, with a faint smile, "that it is nothing in your line of business?"
"That is just the point. It is in my line of business."
To the surprise of Fanks, the young man gave a kind of gasp, and without a word he turned and led the way into the house. This behaviour was so different to his usual manner, that Fanks suspected trouble; and, with nothing but his incurable suspicion to go on, he wondered if this agitation was in any way connected with the business he had come about. In plain words, with the tattooed cross; and with the crime of Tooley's Alley. The room into which Hersham ushered the detective, was a simply-furnished apartment of a bright and cheerful character. Furniture, carpet, wallpaper, and curtains, were all of a light and pleasant complexion. Two dwarf book-shelves on either side of the fireplace were filled with well-chosen volumes; while boxing gloves and foils on the walls showed that the tastes of the journalist were not exclusively literary. Excellent pictures adorned the walls; and photographs--mostly those of pretty women--were ranged on the mantlepiece. As a whole, the room was remarkably bright and attractive in both of which respects it thoroughly reflected the character of its occupant.
With commendable hospitality, Hersham produced a bottle of whisky, two glasses, and a jug of water. Signing to Fanks to help himself, he sat in a chair near the window, and waited for his apparently unwelcome visitor to speak. Fanks did not open his mouth, and Hersham looked up to see the cause of his silence. The detective was staring at the photographs on the mantleshelf--or rather, he was gazing with astonished eyes at one portrait. It was little wonder that he did so; for the picture was that of the young woman, who had appeared and disappeared so unexpectedly at the chambers of Sir Gregory Fellenger, in Half-Moon Street. For once in his life, Fanks was rendered dumb with astonishment.
"What are you staring at?" asked Hersham, sharply.
The detective pointed to the picture. "Who is that young lady?" he asked in a tone of intense curiosity.
"I don't see what business that is of yours," replied Hersham, "but to gratify your curiosity I may tell you she is the girl I am engaged to."