Many facts I ascertained were distinctly strange. The more so when, on making inquiry through a man whom the Parson knew living at the Quarnero, I found that this Mr Wilkinson had left Abbazia at the same hour as his three friends.
I could see no reason why my presence at the Stefanie should create such sudden terror within the mind of the old lady with the yellow teeth. The more I reflected upon the whole affair, the more mysterious were the phases it assumed.
I recollected that the old lady, whoever she might be, lived at Number 10 Toddington Terrace, Regent’s Park, and I resolved to call and see her in pretence that I had not recognised her in Abbazia, and was unaware of her presence there.
Autumn gave place to winter, and I was still wandering about the Continent on matters more or less lucrative. To Venice Naples and down to Constantinople I went, returning at last in the dark days of late January to the rain and mud of London; different, indeed, to the sunshine and brightness of the beautiful Bosphorus.
One afternoon, while seated here in Dover Street, lazily looking forth upon the traffic, I suddenly made up my mind to call upon the old lady, and with that purpose took a taxi-cab.
As we pulled up before Number 10, I at once recognised the truth, for the green Venetian blinds were all down.
In answer to my ring, a narrow-faced, consumptive-looking woman, evidently the caretaker, opened the door.
“No, sir. Madame Demidoff and Elise left home again for the Continent a fortnight ago, and they won’t be back till the beginning of April.” She spoke of Elise familiarly without the prefix “Miss.” That was curious.
“Do you know where they are?”
“I send their letters to the Excelsior Hotel, at Palermo.”