I had been wondering that, myself. Kensington Gardens were quite near to Barbara’s flat, but they were a long way from Jermyn Street. It was certainly odd that he should be here and on this day of all days. But at this point my reflections were interrupted by the appearance of their subject from behind the big elm-trunk.
He came on us suddenly and was quite close before he saw us. When he did see us, however, he stopped short within a few paces of us, regarding us with a wild stare. It was the first time that I had seen him since the funeral; and certainly his appearance had not improved in the interval. There was something neglected and dishevelled in his aspect that was distinctly suggestive of drink or drugs. But what principally struck me was the expression of furious hate with which he glared at me. There was no mistaking it. Whatever might be the cause, there could be no doubt that he regarded me with almost murderous animosity. He remained in this posture only for a few seconds. Then, as Barbara had begun to utter a few words of greeting, he raised his hat and strode away without a word.
Barbara looked at his retreating figure with a vexed smile.
“Silly fellow!” she exclaimed. “He is angry that I have come out to spend a few hours with my oldest friend, and shows it like a bad-mannered child. I wish he would behave more like an ordinary person.”
“You can hardly expect him to behave like what he is not,” I said. “Besides, a very ordinary man may feel jealous at seeing another man admitted to terms of intimacy, which are denied to him, with the woman to whom he is specially attached. For I suppose, Barbara, we may take it that that is the position?”
“I suppose so,” she admitted. “He is certainly very devoted to me, and I am afraid he is rather jealous of you.”
As she spoke, I looked at her and could not but feel a faint sympathy with Wallingford. She was really a very handsome woman; and to-day she was not only looking her best; she seemed, in some mysterious way to have grown younger, more girlish. The rather sombre gravity of the last few years seemed to be quite dissipated since we had left the flat, and much of the charm of her youth had come back to her.
“He looked more than rather jealous,” said I. “Venomous hatred was what I read in his face. Do you think he has anything against me other than my position as his rival in your affections?”
“Yes, I do. He is mortally afraid of you. He believes that you suspect him of having, at least had a hand in poor Harold’s death and that you have set Dr. Thorndyke to track him down and bring the crime home to him. And his terror of Dr. Thorndyke is positively an insane obsession.”
I was by no means so sure of this, but I said nothing, and she continued: