“Perhaps,” she said. “That woman was jealous of the attention he paid me.”
Chapter Thirty.
Conclusion.
“Mrs Slade is still in her room, sir, but she’s not alone; her maid arrived from London last night,” answered the chambermaid at the North-Eastern Hotel at Hull, when on the following morning, I made inquiry.
I had been accompanied from King’s Cross by Mabel and the police-agent, Hickman, and we stood together in the hotel corridor prior to entering the woman’s room. Hickman, whom I had all along believed to be deeply implicated in the plot, if not the actual murderer, was, I found, a clever detective of English birth, who had for some years been an officer of the Prefecture of Police in Vienna, but who had latterly been attached to the Austro-Hungarian Embassy in Belgrave Square, and entrusted with the personal safety of the Emperor’s daughter. The revelations I had made utterly amazed him. By the last post on the previous night Mabel had received the letter written from Hull which merely asked for an interview, and we had all three set forth, determined to secure the arrest of the writer.
With that object we entered her sitting-room without a word of warning.
She was sitting at the table writing, but in an instant sprang to her feet, with a cry of profound alarm. When her eyes wandered from Mabel to Hickman and myself, her cheeks blanched. She apparently guessed our purpose.
“You have expressed a desire to meet me,” Mabel said determinedly. “So I have come to you.”