At last a day came when I no longer saw her. In vain I walked up and down the promenade and through the town. Felixstowe was full indeed, but to me it was empty, for the golden hair, the blue eyes, the tan jacket, and the green skirt no longer greeted my longing and expectant gaze.
It was in Piccadilly—that world in miniature, and the scene of so many strange occurrences—that the first act of the drama took place, of which the foregoing was merely the prelude.
I was strolling down the thoroughfare, nearly a month after the disappearance of my lady (for so I called her to myself), and thinking, as indeed I always was, of her, when my own immediate affairs and embarrassments did not fill my mind, when I met her face to face. The thing was at once so natural and at the same time so coincident with my own thoughts, that I could do little more than stare blankly after her.
It was nearly noon, and the well-dressed crowd jostled and pushed me as I stood there. Mechanically I turned to follow after her, when she was joined by the lady who had been with her at Felixstowe, and the two, hailing a hansom, were driven away rapidly, leaving me staring stupidly after the fast disappearing vehicle.
As I was retracing my steps I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I perceived a tall man of about thirty-five or forty years of age, his keen grey eyes surmounted by heavy black eyebrows and lashes, while a big moustache almost hid his firm mouth, and drooped down to his heavy square chin.
"You know that lady?" he queried, more with the air of stating a fact than of asking a question.
"I know that I am not in the habit of answering lunatics, or impertinent strangers," I answered, hotly—for my temper is hasty, and the man's manner was abrupt.
"Nevertheless, you do know her," he answered, doggedly.
