With a diligence perhaps unworthy of a journalist I read and re-read my newspaper for nearly half an hour, and in the course of that time the people who went along did not number a dozen. Of none of these did I entertain any suspicion. They included a couple of soldiers, two or three old women, a lady with a small child, a couple of nurses with children, a park-keeper, and a bank clerk with his wallet chained to his belt.
Secreted somewhere in the vicinity, Boyd was watching, but where I knew not. His surmise had unfortunately proved correct, I reflected, as the half-hour chimed. The man, whoever he was, was no fool.
For five minutes longer I remained, when a sudden impatience seized me, and I folded my paper and rose.
As I did so there came round the bend of the path, from the direction of the spot the mysterious voice had indicated, a slim figure in deep mourning, evidently a lady. She walked with an even swinging gait, not as one who was idling there, but as though with some fixed purpose. On her approach I saw that she was attired entirely in black, wearing a dress of the latest mode, the wide skirt of which rustled as she walked; a large hat with swaying feathers which at that moment struck me as somewhat funereal, and a thick spotted veil. Her black silk sunshade she carried on her arm, and as she came nearer I could not help being struck by her neatness of figure, her small waist, wide hips and well-moulded bust.
I lingered at the seat to brush the dust from my coat, so that she might pass and allow me a glance of her face.
She went by with a loud frou-frou of silken underskirt, and at that same instant I turned my gaze upon her and looked into her face.
Next second I drew back, startled and aghast.
Her hair was fair, her eyes large and blue, her features familiar. Even that thick veil could not conceal her marvellous beauty.
I looked again, believing it to be some chimera of my disordered imagination.
No. There was no mistake. It was an astounding, inexplicable truth.