“I must go now,” she said, “and although it sounds ungracious, I trust it may be a long time before we meet again.”
“Why!” I asked, in surprise.
“Because such meetings place us both in peril,” was her vague yet ominous answer.
“You perhaps object to my company?”
“On the contrary,” she hastened to reassure me, “I find it most agreeable. But it behoves all of us, at certain times, to be circumspect.”
She allowed me to shake her hand, then wishing me “Adieu!” turned back again towards Westbourne Grove, with an excuse that she had forgotten to make a purchase.
I saw through her ruse, and, by traversing the side streets, arrived at Cornwall Road before her, and standing in an entry unobserved watched her re-enter the house with a latch-key.
As far as that morning’s work was concerned it was highly satisfactory. The chief fact that worried me now was the remarkable disappearance of Philip Reilly. He was smart, wary, athletic, the very last fellow to fall into any trap. Yet my apprehensions, just as those of his friends, were rendered grave by reason of his continued silence. All I knew was that he had been successful in his observations on the newsagent’s shop in Sterndale Road, but in what manner he had not explained.
Like most young men who endeavour to solve a mystery, he had quickly become an enthusiast, with a fixed notion that we should discover the treasure.
Myself, I was far from sanguine, although, on the face of it, only that document sold by Ben Knutton stood between us and fortune. If we could but gain possession of that parchment for half an hour the secret of the hiding-place would be ours.