“Shall I return home, Sir Marcus, or have you any further need of my service?”
I bade him go home. He withdrew. The Inspector smiled cheerfully. “Now we can get along,” said he. “It’s a pity Mr.—Mr. Pasquale” (he consulted his notes) “is out of touch with us for the moment. He might have given us great assistance.”
He rose from his chair. “I think we shall very soon trace the young lady. An accurate personal description like this, you see, is invaluable.”
He handed me the printed form which he had filled in. In spite of my misery I almost laughed at the fatuity of the man in thinking that those mere unimaginative statistics applicable to five hundred thousand young females in London, could in any way express Carlotta.
“This is all very well,” said I; “but the first thing to do is to lay that Turkish devil by the heels.”
“You can count on our making the most prompt and thorough investigation,” said he.
“And in the mean time what can I do?”
“Your best course, Sir Marcus,” he answered, “is to go home and leave things in our hands. As soon as ever we have the slightest clue, we shall communicate with you.”
He bowed me out politely. In a few moments I found myself in the greyness of the autumn afternoon wandering on the Thames Embankment like a lost soul on the banks of Phlegethon. It seemed as if I had never seen the sun, should never see the sun again. I was drifting sans purpose into eternity.
I passed by some railings. A colossal figure looming through the misty air struck me with a sense of familiarity. It was the statue of Sir Bartle Frere, and these were the gardens beneath the terrace of the National Liberal Club. It was here that I had first met her. The dripping trees seemed to hold the echo of the words spoken when their leaves were green: “Will you please to tell me what I shall do?” I strained my eyes to see the bench on which I had sat, and my eyes tricked me into translating a blurr at the end of the seat into the ghostly form of Carlotta. My misery overwhelmed me; and through my misery shot a swift pang of remorse at having treated her harshly on that sweet and memorable afternoon in May.