CHAPTER XLIV. EMILIA RETRACES THE OLD ROADS.

After I had learned all that Emilia had to tell me, I informed her that I would take a day or two to decide upon my plan of action. In the meantime she was to make no movement whatever, but to keep herself and daughter in absolute privacy. She placed herself entirely in my hands, and promised not to deviate by a hair's-breadth from the instructions I gave her.

"Be sure of that," I said, "and I feel that I shall be able to further your heart's wishes."

On the third day certain ideas had taken some kind of practicable shape, and I determined to set to work. I must mention that I visited Mrs. Middlemore regularly during my deliberations, and had taken the rooms which had been inhabited by M. Felix. She had no news of the slightest importance to communicate to me although she was in the mood to make mountains out of molehills. Nothing further had transpired in the Gerard Street house; no person had called to make inquiries, and she had not been upset by any more false messages. I saw my little friend Sophy also. She was as cheery and sharp as ever, and she informed me that "Aunty was ever so much nicer than she used to be," and I expressed my delight at the good report.

"But I say," remarked Sophy, "ain't yer got nothink to give me to do for yer?"

"Not just yet, Sophy," I replied. "Presently, perhaps."

"The sooner the better," said Sophy. "I likes to be busy."

"You will not go away, Sophy? I may want you at any moment."

"I shall be ready for yer. I'll do anythink for yer, never mind what it is."

I explained to her on my last visit that I should not see her for a week or so, as I was going out of London upon particular business, and that while I was away she was to keep her eyes open. If she happened to see the man who had sent her aunt on a false errand to the Bow Street Police Court she was to follow him secretly and find out where he lived, and upon my return to London she was to tell me everything that had happened. Satisfied with her assurances of obedience I left the grateful little creature, and an hour later was closeted with Emilia. I had not yet informed her of the trick which had been played upon Mrs. Middlemore, and of the disappearance of the revolver; I did so now, and asked if she had any suspicion who the man was.

"No," she replied, "I cannot imagine."

"Describe Dr. Peterssen's appearance to me," I said, "as you last saw him." She did so, and I continued, "It is as I supposed. He is the man who gave Mrs. Middlemore the false message, and got her out of the house to afford him the opportunity of obtaining what he wanted. Money, of course, if he could lay his hand on any, but chiefly papers and documents which might be valuable to him in the future--documents probably connected with your story."

"Why should he wish to obtain possession of such things?" asked Emilia. "They can be of no use to him he dare not appear."

"Publicly he dare not; privately he may. You know of his visit to M. Felix; he does not know of yours. Say that he succeeded in obtaining possession of something which would establish your marriage." Emilia clasped her hands. "He would surely conceive the plan of discovering where you were, and coming to you privately for the purpose of making a bargain for these proofs."

"I would give him anything--everything," exclaimed Emilia.

"That is certain," I said, "and it might be worth while to come to terms with him; but I should not allow him to rob you. M. Felix, so far as we know, did not make a will. Doubtless he has left property of some kind, and should your marriage be proved the property would be yours. Indeed, in that case it would be yours if M. Felix were living and in this room at the present moment."

Emilia shuddered, and looked around timorously.

"Have you any idea what can have become of his body?" she asked in a whisper.

"No; I can form no theory upon that mystery. I would give a great deal to unravel it."

"Is it possible that Dr. Peterssen can have taken it away?"

"It is more than possible, it is probable; but his motive for doing so is as great a mystery as the disappearance of the body without his intervention. A deliberate act of that kind is done with a deliberate motive, and I can think of none which would prompt him to carry into execution a scheme so full of risk. And now listen attentively to what I say. Setting aside the danger attendant upon your nocturnal visit to M. Felix--a danger which I trust will in time entirely disappear--it is of the highest importance to you that you should obtain proof of your marriage with Gerald Paget."

"It is all I desire," said Emilia. "That obtained, I should be content to die."

"It will be better to live, to draw happiness from the union of your daughter and Julian Bordier. My plan is this: That you and I go to your native town, and starting from the house of the maiden ladies who were so good to you on the night of the fire, endeavor to trace the road you took when you flew from the shelter they gave you. You remember the river----"

"I can never, never forget it," said Emilia, "nor the fearful thoughts which seemed to force me toward it."

"There will be little difficulty in ascertaining your route thus far on your journey. From that point we will make inquiries, and it may be that we shall succeed in discovering the road the kind old wagoner took toward his home. That done, all the rest is easy."

"Dear friend," she said, pressing my hand, "how can I thank you?"

"Thank me when success crowns our efforts. Are you ready to take the journey? We will start to-morrow morning."

"But Constance!" she exclaimed. "She cannot go with us. She is ignorant of my sad story."

"Let her remain so. I have provided for her comfort while we are away. I have spoken to my mother--a lady in whom you can place implicit confidence--and she will be glad if your daughter will accept her hospitality during our absence. You may trust her; your daughter will be well cared for."

"I know that, I know that," said Emilia, her tears overflowing. "But what have I done to merit such goodness? What claim have I upon you?"

"The claim of a helpless, persecuted lady," I replied, gently. "What I do is willingly, cheerfully done. Accept my offer, and you will make me your debtor. It will be ample reward if I succeed."

"God is very good to me," she murmured. "Thankfully, gratefully do I accept it."

"That is well. You had better arrange to retain these rooms, and we will leave my mother's address with the landlady, in case the Bordiers should come and make inquiries."

"You think it right that they should see us?" inquired Emilia.

"You will be acting injuriously to yourself if you affect any secrecy. Certainly they must see you and your daughter; their first inquiries will be for you and you will lay yourself open to the worst construction if you keep out of their way. Be advised by me."

"I will, in all things."

"My sister will accompany us on our journey. It will be pleasant for you to have a lady companion, and it will leave me free to make any inquiries that may suggest themselves."

She appreciated the delicacy of the act and it was arranged that I should call for her and Constance in the evening to conduct them to my mother's house. This was done, and in the morning Emilia, my sister, and I started on our journey.

I will waste no words in a description of our proceedings. There was no difficulty in finding the house in which the kind maiden sisters had resided, and from the street in which it was situated there was but one outlet to the open country. From the time occupied by Emilia in her flight on that never-to-be-forgotten night I judge that she must have walked some eleven or twelve miles, and at about that distance from the town lay the river Arbor. There we halted on the second day of our journey, and from that spot our real difficulties began. There was the hill Emilia had mounted, on the crown of which she had fallen in a state of exhaustion, with the river stretching to the left of her. It was inevitable that my sister should be taken into our confidence, and in the distressing reminiscences which the scene recalled to Emilia she was a true solace to the poor lady. I gently wooed her to describe the impressions of that terrible night's wanderings, and had any doubts been in my mind as to the truth of her story the pathos of that recital would have effectually dispelled them. But I entertained no doubts, and more strongly than ever did I resolve to champion her cause and not to relinquish it till success rewarded me, or absolute failure stared me in the face. As Emilia's suffering tones fell upon my ears I could almost hear the tinkling bells of the horses in the wagon and the driver's kindly exhortations to his cattle. He came in view, in my fancy, and spoke to Emilia, and receiving no encouraging answer, passed down the hill with his team. He returned and addressed her again, and she implored him to save her from the river. Supported by him, she descended the hill, and was lifted into the wagon, where she lay in a blind stupor of forgetfulness and insensibility. I declare that I saw the pictures of this human agony as if they were actually presented to my sight. As for my good sister, she was continually wiping the tears from her eyes, and when we reached the bottom of the hill, and Emilia said, "It was here the wagon stood, I think," she pressed the unfortunate lady in her arms, and they mingled their tears together.

It was at this spot, I repeat, that our real difficulties began, for at about a couple of hundred yards along the road the wagon must have taken (there being no other) it branched out in three directions, north, south, and east. Now, which road led to the wagoner's home?

Emilia could not inform us. We took one, the broadest--though why he should have selected the broadest instead of the narrowest I cannot explain, all three roads being equally available for horse traffic--and pursued it for a mile or so, and were confronted by four cross roads, which multiplied our difficulty. I will not enlarge upon the labor of this perplexing enterprise. It is sufficient to say that at the end of the twelfth day I was compelled to confess that we were as far from success as on the first day of our journey. Of course I made innumerable inquiries, but I was speaking of eighteen years ago, and I could not elicit the slightest information of a reliable nature to guide me in the search we were prosecuting. I spared no labor, and although I was greatly discouraged I did not allow my companions to observe my despondency. At length I came to the conclusion that it would be useless to employ further time in the quest, and I told Emilia and my sister that we should return to London on the morrow. Emilia looked at me mournfully.

"Don't feel down-hearted," I said, with a cheerful smile. "This is the smallest arrow in my quiver. I have a surer one to adjust when we reach town."

It was touching when we arrived at my mother's house, to see the meeting between Emilia and her daughter. We left them to themselves awhile, and when they joined us I conveyed to Emilia a pressing request from my mother that they would stop with her as long as they remained in London. It needed persuasion to induce Emilia to comply, but she saw that Constance wished her to accept, and she did so with much grace, but with a humbleness of manner which powerfully affected me. Constance had some news to communicate. The Bordiers had arrived in London, and had visited her. I was impressed by a certain tremulousness in her voice as she spoke of them, but I made no comment upon it, not feeling myself warranted to intrude upon her confidence.

"My mother's house is open to your friends," I said. "They will be always welcome here."

She thanked me, and shortly afterward I was hurrying to the W. C. district, first to present myself at the office of the Evening Moon, and afterward to go to my chambers, where, in response to a telegram I had forwarded from the country, I expected a visitor.