The Gerrard Street Mystery and Other Weird Tales | Page 7

no other near relation except myself, and
she had no cause for anxiety, much less for "sorrow," on my account. I
thought it singular, too, that my uncle, having in some strange manner
become acquainted with my movements, had withheld the knowledge
from Alice. It did not square with my preconceived ideas of him that he
would derive any satisfaction from taking his niece by surprise.
All was a muddle together, and as my temples throbbed with the

intensity of my thoughts, I was half disposed to believe myself in a
troubled dream from which I should presently awake. Meanwhile, on
glided the train.
A heavy snow-storm delayed us for several hours, and we reached
Hamilton too late for the mid-day express for Toronto. We got there,
however, in time for the accommodation leaving at 3.15 p.m., and we
would reach Toronto at 5.05. I walked from one end of the train to the
other in hopes of finding some one I knew, from whom I could make
enquiries about home. Not a soul. I saw several persons whom I knew
to be residents of Toronto, but none with whom I had ever been
personally acquainted, and none of them would be likely to know
anything about my uncle's domestic arrangements. All that remained to
be done under these circumstances was to restrain my curiosity as well
as I could until reaching Toronto. By the by, would my uncle really
meet me at the station, according to his promise? Surely not. By what
means could he possibly know that I would arrive by this train? Still, he
seemed to have such accurate information respecting my proceedings
that there was no saying where his knowledge began or ended. I tried
not to think about the matter, but as the train approached Toronto my
impatience became positively feverish in its intensity. We were not
more than three minutes behind time, as we glided in front of the Union
Station, I passed out on to the platform of the car, and peered intently
through the darkness. Suddenly my heart gave a great bound. There,
sure enough, standing in front of the door of the waiting-room, was my
uncle, plainly discernible by the fitful glare of the overhanging lamps.
Before the train came to a stand-still, I sprang from the car and
advanced towards him. He was looking out for me, but his eyes not
being as young as mine, he did not recognize me until I grasped him by
the hand. He greeted me warmly, seizing me by the waist, and almost
raising me from the ground. I at once noticed several changes in his
appearance; changes for which I was wholly unprepared. He had aged
very much since I had last seen him, and the lines about his mouth had
deepened considerably. The iron-grey hair which I remembered so well
had disappeared; its place being supplied with a new and rather
dandified-looking wig. The oldfashioned great-coat which he had worn
ever since I could remember had been supplanted by a modern frock of

spruce cut, with seal-skin collar and cuffs. All this I noticed in the first
hurried greetings that passed between us.
"Never mind your luggage, my boy," he remarked. "Leave it till
to-morrow, when we will send down for it. If you are not tired we'll
walk home instead of taking a cab. I have a good deal to say to you
before we get there."
I had not slept since leaving Boston, but was too much excited to be
conscious of fatigue, and as will readily be believed, I was anxious
enough to hear what he had to say. We passed from the station, and
proceeded up York Street, arm in arm.
"And now, Uncle Richard," I said, as soon as we were well clear of the
crowd,--"keep me no longer in suspense. First and foremost, is Alice
well?"
"Quite well, but for reasons you will soon understand, she is in deep
grief. You must know that--"
"But," I interrupted, "tell me, in the name of all that's wonderful, how
you knew I was coming by this train; and how did you come to write to
me at Boston?"
Just then we came to the corner of Front Street, where was a lamp-post.
As we reached the spot where the light of the lamp was most brilliant,
he turned half round, looked me full in the face, and smiled a sort of
wintry smile. The expression of his countenance was almost ghastly.
"Uncle," I quickly said, "What's the matter? Are you not well?"
"I am not as strong as I used to be, and I have had a good deal to try me
of late. Have patience and I will tell you all. Let us walk more slowly,
or I shall