Now there is nothing more disconcerting than a total failure of agreement between anticipation and realization. Unconsciously, I had pictured to myself the easy-mannered, genial Sylvia, seated, perhaps, at an easel or table, working on one of her pictures, and had prepared myself for a reception quite simple, friendly and unembarrassing. Confidently and entirely at my ease, I walked in through the doorway; and there the pleasant vision faded, leaving me with the smile frozen on my face, staring in consternation at one of the most appalling old women that it has ever been my misfortune to encounter.
I am, in general, rather afraid of old women. They are, to my mind, a rather alarming class of creature; but the present specimen exceeded my wildest nightmares. It was not merely that she was seated unnaturally in the exact centre of the room and that she sat with unhuman immobility, moving no muscle and uttering no sound as I entered, though that was somewhat embarrassing. It was her strange, forbidding appearance that utterly shattered my self-possession and seemed to disturb the very marrow in my bones.
She was a most remarkable-looking person. An immense Roman nose, a mop of frizzy grey fringe and a lofty surmounting cap or head-dress of some kind, suggested that monstrous and unreal bird, the helmeted hornbill; and the bird-like character was heightened by her eyes, which were small and glittering and set in the midst of a multitude of radiating wrinkles.
To this most alarming person I made a low bow—and dropped my stick, of which the maid had neglected to relieve me and for which I had found no appointed receptacle. As I stooped hastily to pick it up, my hat slipped from my grasp, and, urged by the devil that possess disengaged hats, instantly rolled under a deep ottoman, whence I had to hook it out with the handle of my stick. I rose, perspiring with embarrassment, to confront that immovable figure, and found the glittering eyes fixed on me attentively but without any sign of expression of human emotion. Haltingly I essayed to stammer out an explanation of my visit. "Er—I have—er—called—" Here I paused to collect my ideas and the old lady watched me stonily without offering any remark; indeed no comment was needed on a statement so self-evidently true. After a brief and hideous silence I began again. "I—er—thought it desirable—er—and in fact necessary and—er—proper to call—er and—"
Here my ideas again petered out and a horrid silence ensued, amidst which I heard a still, emotionless voice murmur: "Yes. And you have accordingly called."
"Exactly," I agreed, grasping eagerly at the slenderest straw of suggestion. "I have called to—er—well, the fact is that my—er—very remarkable absence seemed to call for some explanation, especially as certain enquiries—er—"
At this point I stopped suddenly with a horrible doubt as to whether I was not saying more than was discreet; and the misgiving was intensified by that chilly, calm voice, framing the question: "Enquiries made personally?"
Now this was a facer. I seemed to have put my foot in it at the first lead off. Supposing Sylvia had said nothing about her little visits to Mrs. Blunt? It would never do to give her away to this inquisitorial old waxwork. I endeavoured to temporize. "Well," I stammered, " not exactly made personally to me."
"By letter, perhaps?" the voice suggested in the same even, impassive tone.
"Er—no. Not by letter."
There was a short embarrassing pause, and then the old lady, as if summing up the case, said frigidly: "Not exactly personally and not by letter."
I was so utterly confounded by her judicial manner, her immovable, expressionless face and the hypnotic quality of those glittering eyes, that for the moment I could think of nothing to say. "Don't let me interrupt you," said she after some seconds of agonized silence on my part; whereupon I pulled myself together and made a fresh start. "I should, perhaps, have explained that I have been unavoidably absent from home for some time, and, as I was unable to communicate with my friends, I have, I am afraid, caused them some anxiety. It was this that seemed to make it necessary for me to call and give an account of myself."
She pondered awhile on this statement—if a graven image can be said to ponder—and at length enquired: "You spoke of your friends. Are any of them known to me?"
"Well," I replied, "I was referring more particularly to your daughter."
She continued to regard me fixedly, and, after a brief interval, rejoined: "You are referring to my daughter. But I do not recall the existence of any such person. I think you must be mistaken."
It seemed extremely probable, and I hastened to amend the description. "I beg your pardon. I should have said Miss Vyne. But perhaps she is not at home."
"You are evidently mistaken," was the paralyzing reply. "I am Miss Vyne; and I need not add that I am at home."
"But," I demanded despairingly, "is there not another Miss Vyne?"
"There is not," she answered. "But it is possible that you are referring to Miss Sylvia Vyne. Is that so?"
I replied sulkily that it was; and being somewhat nettled by this unnecessary and rather offensive hairsplitting, offered no further remark. How the conversation would have proceeded after this, I cannot even surmise. But it did not proceed at all, for the embarrassing silence was brought to an end by a very agreeable interruption. The door opened softly and for one moment Sylvia herself stood framed in the portal; then, with a little cry, she ran towards me with her hands held out impulsively and the prettiest smile of welcome. "So it is really you!" she exclaimed. "That silly little goose of a maid has only just told me you were here. I am glad to see you. When did you graciously please to descend from the clouds?"
"I arrived home this afternoon, and as soon as I had changed and had lunch I came here to report myself."
"How nice of you," said Sylvia. "I suppose you guessed how anxious we should be?"
"I didn't presume to think that you would actually be anxious about me," I replied, with a furtive eye on the waxwork," though I knew that you had been kind enough to express an interest in my fate."
"What a cold-bloodedly polite way to put it!" laughed Sylvia. "'Express an interest,' indeed! We were most dreadfully worried about you."
To a somewhat friendless man like myself this sympathetic warmth was very delightful, and my pleasure was not appreciably damped when a chill, emotionless voice affirmed: "The use of the first person singular would, I think, be preferable."
Sylvia turned on her aunt with mock ferocity. "Well, really!" she exclaimed. "You are a dreadful impostor, Mopsy, dear! Just listen to her, Dr. Jardine. And if you had only seen what a twitter she was in as the time went on and no news came!"
I gasped, and the hair seemed to stir on my scalp. Mopsy! The name was obviously not applied to me. But could it be—was it possible that such a name could be associated with that terrific old lady? It was inconceivable. It was positively profane! It was almost as if one should presume to address the Deity as "old chap." I could hardly believe my ears.
I glanced at her nervously and caught her glittering eye; but the grotesque face was as immovable as everlasting granite, though, indeed, by some ventriloquial magic, the word "Rubbish." managed to disengage itself from her person.
"It isn't rubbish," retorted Sylvia. "It's the plain truth. We were both worried to death about you. And no wonder. Dr. Thorndyke was very quiet and matter-of-fact, but there was no disguising his fear that something dreadful had happened to you. And then there was the advertisement in the papers. Did you see that? Oh, it's nothing to grin about. You've given us all a nice fright; and me especially, because, of course, I naturally thought of that ruffian from whom you rescued me in the lane."
"But he never saw me."
"You don't know. He may have done. At any rate, you owe us an explanation; so, when the tea comes in you shall give us the true story of your