“I thank you so much for all your kind words, Mr Urwin. I have at least to-day found a real friend.”
“I hope so,” I laughed. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye; I hope you’ll soon be about again.”
Then the door closed and I was again alone.
I was heartily sorry for her, poor girl. The sudden flight of the old herbalist was, to say the least suspicious. That he had money and could pay the debt was certain. Without doubt he had disappeared on account of a too close attention from the police. Morris Lowry was, I knew, not very remarkable for paternal affection, therefore I feared that he had, as Lily suspected, left her at the mercy of the world.
A week later I was able to go down to my office again, and about six o’clock on the second day I had resumed my duties I accidentally met Boyd at the bottom of Fleet Street.
As merry as usual, we drank together at the Bodega beneath the railway arch in Ludgate Hill, but in reply to my eager questions he told me that absolutely nothing fresh had transpired regarding the curious affair at Kensington. I explained that I was still a frequent visitor at Riverdene, but up to the present had discovered nothing. I, of course, did not tell him all my suspicions, preferring to keep my own counsel and allow him to prosecute his inquiries after his own method. From his conversation, however, I saw that he had many other matters in hand, and from his attitude it seemed as though he had given up hope of obtaining a clue to the mystery.
On finishing our wine we rose from the barrel on which we had been sitting, and he having announced his intention to walk along to the bookstall in Ludgate Hill Station to buy a magazine for his wife—for he was just off home by motor-bus to Hammersmith—we strolled together through that short arcade leading to the station, at that hour crowded by hungry City men eager to get back to their suburban homes.
Into every door they surged, springing up the two staircases to the platform above as though they had not a further moment to live, while every few seconds the deep voices of the ticket-collectors cried the names of the stations from the City to Blackheath or Victoria, or from Herne Hill down to Dover. Amid this black-coated, silk-hatted, perspiring crowd a man suddenly brushed past me, rushing up the stairs two steps at a time, slipping through the barrier just as the door was slammed, and disappearing on to the platform.
“Hulloa!” cried Boyd, pressing my arm quickly. “See! Look at that man—the one with the bag, running up the steps. Do you see him?”