There was no name, no address. The telegram had been handed in at St. Martin’s-le-Grand; unearthed, it was found to be in typewritten characters, and the address at its back a fictitious one. One other item of news Van Ingen secured; there had been a lady on the same errand as himself.
“A foreign lady,” said the good folks of Falmouth.
He had some two days to discover Eva Hyatt — this was her name.
He paced the room, his head sunk on his breast. Where was the girl?
The telegram said “Come.” It suggested some prearranged plan in which the girl had acquiesced; she was to leave Falmouth and go somewhere. Suppose she had come to London, where would Catherine Dominguez have placed her? Near at hand; a thought struck Van Ingen. Smith had told him the tale of the deportation of the dancing girl. He would search her flat. He took down his overcoat and struggled into it, made a selection of keys from his pocket, and went out. It was a forlorn hope, but forlorn hopes had often been the forerunners of victory, and there was nothing to be lost by trying.
He came to the great hall of the mansion in Baker Street and asked the number of the dancer’s flat.
The hall porter touched his cap.
“Evening, sir.” Then, “I suppose you know the young lady hasn’t come back yet?”
Van Ingen did know, but said nothing. The porter was in a talkative mood.
“She sent me a wire from Liverpool, saying that she’d been called away suddenly.”
The young man nodded. He knew this, too, for T.B. had sent the wire.
“What the other young lady couldn’t understand,” continued the porter, and Van Ingen’s heart gave a leap, “was, why—”
“Why she hadn’t wired her, eh?” he asked.
“Well, you see, she was so busy—”
“Of course!” The porter clucked his lips impatiently.
“She’s upstairs in Miss Dominguez’ flat at this moment. My word, she’s been horribly worried—”
“I’ll go up and see her. As a matter of fact, I’ve come here for the purpose,” said Van Ingen quickly. He took the lift to the second floor, and walked along the corridor. He reached No. 43 and his hand was raised to press the little electric bell of the suite when the door opened quickly and a girl stepped out. She gave a startled cry as she saw the stranger, and drew back.
“I beg your pardon,” said Van Ingen, with a pleasant smile. “I’m afraid I startled you.” She was a big florid girl with a certain awkwardness of movement.
“Well-dressed but gauche,” thought Van Ingen.
“Provincial! she’ll talk.”
“I was a little startled,” she said, with a ready smile. “I thought it was the postman.”
“But surely postmen do not deliver letters in this palatial dwelling,” he laughed. “I thought the hall porter—”
“Oh, but this is a registered letter,” she said importantly, “from America.” All the time Van Ingen was thinking out some method by which he might introduce the object of his visit. An idea struck him.
“Is your mother—” she looked blank, “er — aunt within?” he asked. He saw the slow suspicion gathering on her face.
“I’m not a burglar,” he smiled, “in spite of my alarming question, but I’m in rather a quandary. I’ve a friend — well, not exactly a friend — but I have business with Miss Dominguez, and—”
“Here’s the postman,” she interrupted. A quick step sounded in the passage, and the bearer of the king’s mails, with a flat parcel in his hand and his eyes searching the door numbers, stopped before them.
“Hyatt?” he asked, glancing at the address.
“Yes,” said the girl; “ — is that my parcel?”
“Yes, miss; will you sign?”
“Hyatt?” murmured Van Ingen; “what an extraordinary coincidence. You are not by any chance related to the unfortunate young man the story of whose sad death has been filling the newspapers?”
She flushed and her lip trembled.
“He was my brother; did you know him?”
“I knew of him,” said Van Ingen quietly, “but I did not know you lived in London!”
“Nor do I,” said the girl; “it is only by the great kindness of Miss Dominguez that I am here.”
There was no time for delicate finesse.
“Will you let me come in and talk with you?”
Van Ingen said; then, as he saw again the evidence of her suspicion, “What I have to ask you is of the greatest importance to you and to me.”
She hesitated, then led the way into a handsomely furnished sittingroom.
“First of all,” said Van Ingen quietly, “you must tell me how Miss Dominguez found you.”
“She came to Falmouth and sought me out. It was not difficult. I have a little millinery establishment there, and my name is well known. She came one morning, eight days — no — yes, it was seven days ago, and—”
“What did she want?”
“She said she had known Charles; he had some awfully swagger friends; that is what got him into trouble at the post-office; it was a great blow to us, because—”
“What did she want?” asked Van Ingen, cutting short the loquacity.
“She said that Charles had something of hers — a book which she had lent him, years before. Now, the strange thing was that on the very day poor Charles was killed I had a telegram which ran: ‘ If anything happens, tell Escoltier book is at Antaxia, New York.’ It was unsigned, and I did not connect it with Charles. You see, I hadn’t heard from him for years.
“She was a great friend of Charles’ — the Spanish lady — and she came down especially about the book. She said Charles had got into trouble and she wanted the book to save him. Then I showed her the telegram. I was confused, but I wanted to help Charles.” She gulped down a sob. “I asked her who Escoltier was.”
“Yes?” asked Van Ingen quickly.
“She said he was a friend of hers who was interested in the book. She went away, but came back soon afterwards and told me that ‘Antaxia’ was the telegraphic address of a safe deposit in New York. She was very nice and offered to pay for a cable to the deposit. So I wired: ‘Please forward by registered post the book deposited by Charles Hyatt’; and I signed it ‘Eva Hyatt’ and gave my address. By the evening the reply came: ‘Forwarded; your previous wire did not comply with our instructions.’—”
“I see,” said Van Ingen.
“Well, that is more than I can,” said the girl, with a smile, “because only one wire was sent. Miss Dominguez was surprised, too, and a little annoyed, and said: ‘ How foolish it was of me not to ask you your Christian name.’ Well, then she insisted upon my coming to stay with her till the book came. I came expecting I should find Charles, but — but—”
Her eyes were filled with tears.
“I read in a newspaper that he was dead. It was the first thing I saw in London, the bill of a newspaper—”
Van Ingen gave her time to recover her voice.
“And Miss Dominguez?”
“She took this furnished flat near to hers,” said the girl; “she lives here—”