The Sphinx without a Secret

One afternoon I was sitting outside my favourite café, watching the splendour and shabbiness of life in Paris, and wondering about the people passing in front of me, when I heard someone call my name. I turned round and saw Lord Murchison. We had not met since we had been at college together nearly ten years before, so I was delighted to come across him again, and we shook hands warmly. We had been great friends. I had liked him greatly: he was so handsome, so high-spirited and so honourable. We used to say that he would be perfect, if he did not always tell the truth, but I think we really admired him all the more for his frankness. However, I found him greatly changed. He looked anxious and seemed to be confused about something. I decided that it was a woman, and asked him if he was married yet.

"I don't understand women well enough," he answered.

"Murchison," I said, "women are meant to be loved, not understood."

"I cannot love where I cannot trust," he replied.

"I believe you have a mystery in your life," I said. "So, tell me about it."

"Let's go for a drive," he answered. "It's too crowded here. No, not a yellow taxi, any other colour - there, that dark green one will do," and in a few moments we were driving down the road.

"Where shall we go?" I said.

"Oh, anywhere you like!" he answered. "To a restaurant. We can eat there and you'll tell me all about yourself."

"I want to hear about you first," I said. "Tell me your mystery."

He took from his pocket a little silver case and handed it to me. I opened it. Inside there was the photograph of a woman. She was tall and slim, and strangely picturesque with her large eyes and long hair.

"What do you think of that face?" he said. "Is it truthful?"

I examined it carefully. It seemed to me the face of someone who had a secret, but whether that secret was good or evil I could not say. Its beauty was shaped by many mysteries and the faint smile that just played on the lips was far too subtle to be really sweet.

"Well," he cried impatiently, "what do you say?"

I answered, "Let me know all about her."

"Not now," he said; "after dinner" and began to talk about other things.

When the waiter brought us our coffee and cigarettes, I reminded Lord Murchison of his promise. He got up from his seat, walked two or three times up and down the room and, falling into an armchair, told me the following story:

"One evening," he said, "I was walking down a street in central London at about five o'clock. There was a terrible jam and the traffic had almost stopped. Close to the pavement, there was a little yellow car, which, for some reason or other, attracted my attention. As I passed by, the face I showed you this afternoon looked out. It fascinated me immediately. All that night I kept thinking of it and all the next day. I wandered up and down that street, looking into every car and waiting for the yellow one; but I couldn't find her, and eventually I began to think she was just a dream.

"About a week afterwards, I was having dinner with a female friend. Dinner was set for eight o'clock but at half-past we were still waiting. Finally the servant opened the door and announced Lady Alroy. It was the woman I had been looking for. She came in very slowly, looking like moonlight in a silver-grey dress, and, to my delight, I was asked to sit next to her at dinner. After we had sat down, I remarked quite innocently, 'I think I caught sight of you some time ago, Lady Alroy.' She grew very pale, and said to me in a low voice, 'Please do not talk so loud; you may be overheard.' I felt miserable at making such a bad beginning. She spoke very little, always in the same low musical voice, and seemed as if she was afraid of someone listening.

"I fell passionately, stupidly in love and the atmosphere of mystery that surrounded her made me curious. When she was going away, which she did very soon after dinner, I asked her if I might call and see her. She hesitated for a moment, glanced round to see if anyone was near us, and then said, 'Yes, tomorrow at a quarter to five.' I asked my friend to tell me about her, but all I could learn was that she was a widow with a beautiful house, and so I went home.

"The next day I arrived at her home punctually, but was told that Lady Alroy had just gone out. I went away quite unhappy and very puzzled and, after long consideration, wrote her a letter, asking if I could visit some other afternoon. I had no answer for several days, but at last I got a little note saying she would be at home on Sunday at four, and with this extraordinary postscript: 'Please do not write to me here again. I will explain when I see you.'

"On Sunday she met me, and was charming; but when I was going away she asked me, if I ever wrote to her again, to address my letter to 'Mrs. Knox, care of Whittaker's Library, Green Street.' 'There are reasons,' she said, 'why I can't receive letters in my own house.'

"All that winter, I saw a great deal of her and the atmosphere of mystery never left her. Sometimes I thought that she was involved with some man, but I couldn't believe it. It was really very difficult for me to decide, because she was like one of those strange crystal balls that at one moment seems clear, and at another clouded.

"At last I decided to ask her to be my wife. I was sick and tired of the constant secrecy of all my visits and of the few letters I sent her. I wrote to her at the library to ask her if she could see me the following Monday at six. She answered yes. I was infatuated with her. In spite of the mystery, I thought then - because of it, I understand now. But, no, it was the woman herself I loved. The mystery troubled me, maddened me."

"When Monday arrived, I went to lunch with my uncle, and about four o'clock I was wandering the streets, waiting for the moment I might visit Lady Alroy. Suddenly I saw her in front of me, walking very fast. When she came to the last house in the street, she went up the steps, took out a key, and let herself in. 'Here's the answer to the mystery,' I said to myself and I hurried on and examined the house. It seemed to be full of rented rooms. Her handkerchief, which she had dropped, was on the doorstep. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Then I began to consider what I should do. I decided I had no right to spy on her and I drove away.

At six I called to see her. She was lying on a sofa, looking quite lovely. 'I'm so glad to see you,' she said; 'I haven't been out all day.'

"I stared at her in amazement, and pulling the handkerchief out of my pocket, handed it to her.

" 'You dropped this afternoon, Lady Alroy,' I said very calmly.

"She looked at me in terror, but made no attempt to take the handkerchief.

" 'What were you doing there?' I asked.

" 'What right have you to question me?' she answered.

" 'The right of a man who loves you,' I replied; " 'I came here to ask you to be my wife.'

"She hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears.

"You must tell me," I continued.

"She stood up and, looking me straight in the face, said, 'Lord Murchison, there's nothing to tell you.'

"You went to meet someone," I shouted. "That is your mystery."

"She grew dreadfully white, and said, 'I went to meet no-one,'

" 'Can't you tell the truth?'

" 'I have told it,' she replied.

"I was mad, frantic. I don't know what I said, but I said terrible things to her. Finally I rushed out of the house. She wrote me a letter the next day. I sent it back unopened and travelled to Norway. After a month I came back and the first thing I saw in the Morning Post was the death of Lady Alroy. She had caught cold at a concert and had died in five days of pneumonia. I shut myself in my house and saw no-one. I loved her so much, I loved her so madly!"

"You went to the street, to the house in it?" I said.

"Yes," he answered.

"One day I went there again. I couldn't help it. I was tortured with doubt. I knocked at the door and a woman opened it. I asked her if she had any rooms to let.

" 'Well, sir,' she replied, 'the rooms are already rented, but I haven't seen the lady for three months, and as rent is owing, you can have them.'

" 'Is this the lady?' I said, showing the photograph.

" 'That's her,' she said, surprised, 'and when is she coming back, sir?'

" 'The lady is dead,' I replied.

" 'Oh, sir, I hope not!' said the woman, 'She was my best lodger. She paid me three pounds a week just to sit in my rooms now and then.'

" 'She met someone here?' I said. But the woman persuaded me that she didn't, that she always came alone, and saw no-one.

" 'What did she do here?' I cried.

" 'She simply sat in the room, sir, reading books, and sometimes had tea,' the woman answered.

"I did not know what to say, so I went away. Now, what do you think it all meant? You don't believe the woman was telling the truth?"

"I do."

"Then why did Lady Alroy go there?"

"Lady Alroy was simply a woman who lived for mystery. She took these rooms for the pleasure of going there unseen, and imagining she was different. She loved secrecy but had no secret."

"Do you really think so?"

"I'm sure of it," I replied.

He took out the silver case, opened it and looked at the photograph. "I wonder?" he said at last.