And so it was arranged that she should establish herself at Mrs Blake’s, in Worthing, which she did about six o’clock on the following evening.
The rooms, she found, were rather frowzy, as are those of most seaside lodgings, the furniture early Victorian, and on the marble-topped whatnot was that ornament in which our grandmothers so delighted—a case of stuffed birds beneath a glass dome. The two windows of the first-floor sitting-room opened out upon a balcony before which was the promenade and the sea beyond—one of the best positions in Worthing, without a doubt.
Mrs Blake recognised Leucha at once, terms were quickly fixed, and the maid—as is usual in such cases—received a small commission for bringing her mistress there.
When they were duly installed, Leucha, in confidence, told the inquisitive landlady that her mistress was one of the old French aristocracy, while at the same moment “Madame” was sitting out upon the balcony watching the sun disappear into the grey waters of the Channel.
In the promenade a few people were still passing up and down, the majority having gone in to dinner. But among them was one man, who, though unnoticed, lounged past and glanced upward—the tall, thin, grey-haired man who had on the previous night watched her enter the house in Hammersmith.
He wore a light grey suit, and presented the appearance of an idler from London, like most of the other promenaders, yet the quick, crafty look he darted in her direction was distinctly an evil one.
Yet in ignorance she sat there, in full view of him, enjoying the calm sundown, her eyes turned pensively away into the grey, distant haze of the coming night.
Her thoughts were away there, across the sea. She wondered how her husband fared, now that he was King. Did he ever think of her save with angry recollections; or did he ever experience that remorse that sooner or later must come to every man who wrongs a faithful woman?
That morning, before leaving the Savoy, she had received two letters, forwarded to her in secret from Brussels. One was from Treysa, and the other bore the postmark “Roma.”
The letter from Treysa had been written by Steinbach three days after the King’s death. It was on plain paper, and without a signature. But she knew his handwriting well. It ran:—