I emerged quickly from my hiding-place, and followed them as far as the stile. He had overtaken her, and was striding by her side, bending and talking earnestly as they crossed the open grassland.
To follow sufficiently close to overhear what he said was impossible without detection, therefore I was compelled to remain and watch the receding figures until they became swallowed up in the darkness. Then, turning, I passed through the belt of wood again, and, scaling a wall, gained the high-road, which, after a walk of half an hour, took me back to Hounslow.
That night I slept but little. The discovery I had made was extraordinary! Who was this woman with the strange name? “La Gioia” meant in Italian “The Jewel,” or “The Joy.” Why did they fear her vengeance?
In the morning, as I descended to breakfast, the landlord of the inn, standing in his shirt-sleeves, met me at the foot of the stairs.
“Have you heard the terrible news, sir?” he inquired.
“No,” I said in surprise. “What news?”
“There was murder committed last night over in Whitton Park!”
“Murder?” I gasped. “Who has been murdered?”