While we had been speaking the door had opened, and as I glanced from Ella across to Mrs Laing, I saw a grey-haired man-servant in the act of handing her a letter.
As he turned from her to leave he glanced at me suddenly. Our eyes met in mutual recognition, and I think I must have started perceptibly, for his brows suddenly contracted as if commanding me to silence; then he made his exit, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
“You haven’t seen my new man Helmholtz before, Geoffrey,” Mrs Laing exclaimed when he had gone. “He seems a perfect treasure, although he is a German. But, after all, German servants are more useful, and quite as trustworthy as English. I should certainly advise Ella to have one.”
“Yes,” I answered mechanically.
The man was none other than Ivan Renouf, the great Russian detective.
Chapter Nineteen.
A Blade of Grass.
Nearly three months had slipped away. It was mid-November. The cloud that had darkened my days had lifted, the sun shone out, and life and hope sprang up and ran riot in my heart. The long, anxious weeks were over, for Ella was now my wife, and our lives were full of joy and love. With utter contempt for the warning words of the ingenuous Russian who left so mysteriously without fulfilling her promise, I had taken the dearest other half of my soul, happy in the knowledge that I would be a solitary wretch no more.