"This is all very well," said I; "but the first thing to do is to
lay that Turkish devil by the heels."
"You can count on our making the most prompt and thorough
investigation," said he.
"And in the mean time what can I do?"
"Your best course, Sir Marcus," he answered, "is to go home and
leave things in our hands. As soon as ever we have the slightest
clue, we shall communicate with you."
He bowed me out politely. In a few moments I found myself in the
greyness of the autumn afternoon wandering on the Thames
Embankment like a lost soul on the banks of Phlegethon. It
seemed as if I had never seen the sun, should never see the sun
again. I was drifting sans purpose into eternity.
I passed by some railings. A colossal figure looming through the
misty air struck me with a sense of familiarity. It was the
statue of Sir Bartle Frere, and these were the gardens beneath
the terrace of the National Liberal Club. It was here that I had
first met her. The dripping trees seemed to hold the echo of the
words spoken when their leaves were green: "Will you please to
tell me what I shall do?" I strained my eyes to see the bench on
which I had sat, and my eyes tricked me into translating a blurr
at the end of the seat into the ghostly form of Carlotta.
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