“What woman?” she inquired, looking me straight in the face.
“The woman who was with them,” I said meaningly, recollecting that her own telegram had been sent from King’s Cross Station.
“I know nothing of her,” was the response. “I’m speaking of my father, Selby, and the hunchback. They returned to London at seven this morning—to Harpur Street.”
“Well?”
“I went there at nine o’clock, but found the house still closed, and could make nobody hear, although I know they entered there about eight o’clock. The blind is now up, and the bear cub is in the window,” she added hoarsely. “There is death in that house!”
“Death! Is that the meaning of that strange sign?” I gasped. “Do you really suspect that some tragedy has been enacted?”
“Yes,” she cried hoarsely. “I fear so. I’ve been there three times this morning and can make nobody hear. Oh, Mr Kennedy, you do not know the awful secret—the terrible—”
But she stopped herself, as though she feared to tell me all the truth.
“Is it that you fear for your father’s sake?” I inquired, a new light suddenly dawning upon me.
“Yes,” she cried, her white trembling hand upon my arm. “I do fear. Will you go with me to Harpur Street?”