William Le Queux - The Bond of Black

I stood upon the hearthrug looking at her, and when our eyes met she laughed a bright, merry laugh, all the misgivings she had previously entertained having now vanished.

“First, you must be faint, for it is so late,” and touching the bell Simes instantly answered, and I ordered port wine and glasses.

She protested instantly, but on being pressed sipped half a glass and left the remainder.

We chatted on as Simes, who had been waiting on us, with a glance of wonder, left and closed the door.

Then, rising, I took down the Directory from the bookcase and opened it at the “Streets.” She rose from her chair, and gazed eagerly upon the great puzzling volume until I came to Ellerdale Street.

“Ellerdale Street, Lewisham,” I read aloud. “From Porson Street to Ermine Road. Do those names bring back to you any recollection of the whereabouts of your friends’ house?”

“No,” she reflected, with a perplexed expression. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“The street is apparently near Loampit Vale,” I said. “That would be the principal thoroughfare. You no doubt came from Lewisham Road Station by the Chatham and Dover Railway to Victoria – or perhaps to Ludgate Hill?”

She shook her head. Apparently she had not the slightest idea of the geography of London. Upon this point her mind was an utter blank.

“How long have you been in London?” I inquired.

“Nearly a week; but I’ve not been out before. My aunt has been ill,” she explained.

“Then you live in the country, I suppose?”

“Yes, I have lived in Warwickshire, but my home lately has been in France.”

“In France!” I exclaimed, surprised. “Where?”

“At Montgeron, not far from Paris.”

“And you have come to London on a visit?”

“No. I have come to live here,” she replied; adding, “It is absurd that the first evening I go out I am so utterly lost. I know my way about Paris quite well.”

“But Paris is not London,” I said. “The suburbs of our metropolis are veritable Saharas, with their miles and miles of streets where the houses are exactly similar, as if the jerry-builders had not two ideas of architecture.”

It certainly was extraordinary that none of the thoroughfares which I had named gave her any clue to this remote street in which was situated her temporary home. She read down the names of the occupiers of the houses, but could not find her aunt’s name. True, there were some omissions, as there always are, and I began to fear that the Directory would not help us.

On turning over the page, however, I saw in italics: “ Ellerdale Road. See Hampstead .”

“Ah!” I cried, “there is another; but it’s Ellerdale Road,” and after a few moments’ eager search I discovered it. “This road runs from Fitzjohn’s Avenue to Arkwright Road in Frognal. Have you ever heard of them before?”

It was really remarkable that a young girl should thus be so utterly lost in London. I, a man-about-town, knew the West End as I knew the way around my own chambers; and I thought I knew London; but now, on reflection, saw how utterly ignorant I was of the great world which lies beyond those few thoroughfares wherein are situated the theatres, the clubs, and the houses of the wealthy. For the bachelor who lives the life of London the world revolves around Piccadilly Circus.

My pretty companion stood puzzled. It was apparent that she had never heard of any of the thoroughfares I had mentioned, yet it was equally extraordinary that any persons living in London should be entirely ignorant of the district in which they resided.

“The thoroughfare in Hampstead is Ellerdale Road, while that in Lewisham is Ellerdale Street. It must be either one or the other, for they are the only two in London?” I said.

“How far are they apart?” she inquired, looking up from the book, dismayed.

“I don’t know the distance,” I was compelled to admit. “But the one is on one side of London, and the other is in the opposite direction – perhaps nearly eight miles away.”

“I believe it’s Ellerdale Street. I’ve always called it that, and neither of my aunts has corrected me.” Then suddenly, as she glanced round the room, she started as if in terror, and pointing to the little side-table, cried —

“Oh, look!”

I turned quickly, but saw nothing.

“Why, what is it?” I inquired in quick concern. But in an instant her face, a moment before suddenly blanched by some mysterious fear, relaxed into a smile, as she answered —

“Nothing! It was really nothing. I thought – I thought I saw something in that corner.”

“Saw something!” I exclaimed, advancing to the table. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” and she laughed a strange, forced laugh. “It was really nothing, I assure you.”

“But surely your imagination did not cause you to start like that,” I said dubiously. She was, I felt convinced, trying to conceal something from me. Could she, I wondered, be subject to hallucinations?

Then, as if to change the subject, she crossed to my side, and pointing to an antique ivory cross upon an ebony stand, much battered and yellow with age, which I had picked up in a shop on the Ponte Vecchio, in Florence, long ago, she exclaimed —

“What a quaint old crucifix!”

And she took it up and examined it closely, as a connoisseur might look at it.

“The figure, I see, is in silver,” she observed. “And it is very old. Italian, I should say.”

“Yes,” I replied, rather surprised at her knowledge. “How did you know that?”

But she smiled, and declared that she only guessed it to be so, as I had half an hour ago spoken of a recent winter spent in Italy. Then, after admiring it, she placed it down, and again turned, sighed heavily, and bent over the Directory, which was still open upon the table.

As she did so, she suddenly burst forth —

“At last! I’ve found it. Look! there can be no mistake. It isn’t Ellerdale Street, but Ellerdale Road!”

And bending beside her I read where she pointed with her slim finger the words, “16, Popejoy, Mrs”

“Is that your aunt’s name?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“And yours?” I asked.

But she pursed up her lips and did not seem inclined to impart this knowledge to me.

“My name is really of no account,” she said. “We shall not meet again.”

“Not meet again?” I cried, for the thought of losing a friend so beautiful and so charming was an exceedingly unhappy one. “Why shall we not meet? You are going to live in London now, you say,” and taking a card from my cigarette-case I handed it to her.

With her clear, brilliant eyes fixed upon mine, she took the card almost mechanically, then glanced at it.

“I’m greatly indebted to you, Mr Cleeve,” she said. “But I don’t see there is any necessity for you to know my name. It is sufficient, surely, for you to reflect that you one night befriended one who was in distress.”

“But I must know your name,” I protested. “Come, do tell me.”

She hesitated, then lifted her eyes again to mine and answered —

“My name is Aline.”

“Aline,” I repeated. “A name as charming as its owner.”

“You want to pay me compliments,” she laughed, blushing deeply.

“And your surname?” I went on.

“Cloud,” she replied. “Aline Cloud.”

“Then your aunt’s name is Popejoy, and you are living at 16, Ellerdale Road, Hampstead,” I said, laughing. “Well, we have discovered it all at last.”

“Yes, thanks to you,” she replied, with a sigh of relief. Then looking anxiously at the clock, she added, “It’s late, therefore I must be going. I can get there in a cab, I suppose?”