William Le Queux (continued 2)

“I have here the captain’s written orders from your firm, signed by yourself.” And I produced the letter.

He glanced it through eagerly, and then carefully scrutinised the signature.

“This renders the affair far more mysterious,” he exclaimed with increased interest. “The letter-paper is certainly ours, but the whole thing is a forgery.”

“It is not your signature?”

“No, certainly not—only a clumsy imitation;” and taking up a pen, he wrote his signature and handed them both to me for comparison. At once I saw that several of the peculiarities of his handwriting were absent from Banfield’s orders.

“The type-writing is done by a different machine to ours. We use Bar-Locks, while this has probably been written by a Remington,” he went on. “Besides, look at the edge of the paper, and you’ll see that it is badly cut. It is, without doubt, a sheet out of several reams, that were delivered by the stationers some months ago, and were rejected by me because of the careless manner in which the edges had been cut.”

Then he touched his bell and the chief clerk appeared. To him he showed the letter, and without a moment’s hesitation he declared it to be a forgery.

Without going into details of the events of that memorable night, I described how I had recovered consciousness to find myself at sea, and the strict obedience, of the captain to the orders he had received.

“Well, all I can conjecture is,” declared the manager, much puzzled, “that you have fallen the victim of some clever conspiracy. The details show that there was some strong motive for your abduction, and that the conspirators well knew that Banfield remained at home until almost the last moment before sailing. They were, therefore, enabled to put you on board during his absence. The forged orders, too, were brief and well to the point—in fact, worded just as they might be if sent from this house. No; depend upon it there has been some very ingenious plotting somewhere.”

I remained with him a short time longer, then, realising the uselessness of occupying his time, I withdrew, and in further prosecution of my inquiries drove to Doctors’ Commons.

Here, after certain formalities, I gained knowledge which seemed of distinct advantage. Of the official there I learned that the special licence by which I had been married had been applied for by Beryl herself, and was shown a copy of the application signed by her, “Beryl Wynd.”

I read the document through, and its contents held me in amazement, for it prayed “that a licence might be issued for the solemnisation of marriage in the church of St. Ann’s, Wilton Place, between herself and Richard Dawes Colkirk, bachelor, Doctor of Medicine, of 114, Rowan Road, Hammersmith.” Besides, it was dated nearly a fortnight before—soon after I had accepted Raymond’s invitation to be his guest.

But my main object in making inquiries at the registry was to discover my wife’s address, and in this I was successful, for in the same document I found that she was described as “Beryl Grace Wynd, spinster, of 46, Earl’s-court Road, Kensington.”

I had, at least, gained knowledge of the house in which the tragedy had been enacted.

“When the young lady called to make this application, were you present?” I inquired eagerly.

“Yes. I saw her.”

“What was she like? Could you give me a description of her?”

“She was good-looking, elegantly dressed, and about middle height, if I remember aright.”

“And her hair?”

“It was of a colour rather unusual,” answered the man, peering at me through his spectacles. “A kind of golden-brown.”

The description was exact. Beryl had been there, and of her own accord applied for a licence to marry me. The mystery increased each moment.

“Was she alone?” I inquired.

“No. Her father was with her.”

“How did you know he was her father?”

“He introduced himself to me as such—Major Wynd.”

“Major Wynd!” I ejaculated. “But Mr Wynd is not an officer. What kind of man is he?”

“Of military appearance, round-faced, and good-humoured.”

“Old?”

“Certainly not—scarcely fifty. He wore a single eyeglass.”

The description did not answer to that of the Tempter, but rather to that of Tattersett. The truth seemed plain: the Major had posed as Beryl’s father, and had given his consent to the marriage.

The registry official, a little dry-as-dust individual who wore steel-rimmed spectacles poised far down his thin nose, endeavoured to learn who and what I was; but I merely replied that I was making inquiries on behalf of certain friends of the lady, and having satisfied myself by another glance at the signatures, I bade him good afternoon.

After a hasty lunch in a bar at the foot of Ludgate Hill, I set forth by the underground railway to Earl’s Court, and experienced but little difficulty in discovering Number 46. It stood on the right, between Park Terrace and Scarsdale Villas; but at a single glance I saw that it was not the house to which I had been conducted. The latter had been a big, substantial mansion with a spacious portico supported by four huge pillars, whereas this was a small, old-fashioned house of perhaps ten rooms.

Nevertheless, I walked up the garden path and rang the bell. My summons was answered by a neat maid, who called her mistress, an elderly lady, and the latter declared that she had lived there five years and had never heard the name of Wynd.

“Have you ever let your house furnished?” I inquired.

“Never,” She responded. “But the name is somewhat uncommon, and you ought to have no difficulty in finding the address.”

“I hope sincerely that I shall,” I answered, and, apologising for disturbing her, went down the steps, feeling that my mysterious wife had purposely given a false address in order to place any inquirer on a wrong scent.

Along to the corner of Kensington Road I strolled slowly, debating in my mind the best course to pursue. I turned into a public-house at the corner, and asked to see a London Directory, which I searched eagerly. But there was no such name as Wynd among the residents, neither could I find it among those of people living in the suburbs.

I called upon the Vicar of St. Ann’s, Wilton Place, and saw the register I had signed, but the officiating clergyman had been a friend of Wynd’s, and he did not know his address.

It seemed suspiciously as though the name of Wynd was an assumed one. If a false address had been given by the Major at Doctors’ Commons, then in all probability the surname was likewise false.

Fatigued, hungry, and dusty, I at last found myself once again in Rowan Road before the door of Bob Raymond’s house, and entered with my latch-key.

Old Mrs Bishop came forward excitedly to meet me.

“Oh, Doctor,” she cried, “wherever had you been all this week? I felt certain that something had happened to you, and yesterday I got my daughter to write a line to Dr Raymond. But I’m so glad you are back again sir. It’s given my daughter and me such a fright. We imagined all sorts of horrible things like those we read of in Lloyd’s and Reynolds’.”

“Well, I’m back again, Mrs Bishop,” I answered as carelessly as I could. “And I’m confoundedly hungry and tired. Get me a cup of tea and a chop, there’s a good woman.” And I ascended to Bob’s cosy little den from which I had been so suddenly called seven days before.

So Mrs Bishop had written to Bob, and no doubt he would be very surprised that I had disappeared and left the practice to take care of itself. He would certainly consider that my gratitude took a curious form. Therefore, I decided to send him a wire, telling him of my return and promising explanations later.

I cast myself wearily into the big leather armchair, and sat plunged in thought until the old housekeeper entered fussily with my tea.

“Well,” I asked, “I suppose there have been no new patients during my absence?”

“Oh, yes. One, sir.”

“Who was it?”

“A lady, sir. She came about noon on the second day of your absence, and said she wished to consult you. I told her that you’d been called out two days ago, and that you had not returned. She asked when you’d be in, and I said I didn’t know for certain. So she called again later, and seemed very disappointed and anxious. She came next day; but as you were still absent, she left her card. Here it is.” And Mrs Bishop took a card from the tray on a side-table and handed it to me. Upon it was the name, “Lady Pierrepoint-Lane.”

“Was she young or old?”

“Rather young, sir—not more than thirty, I think. She was dressed in deep mourning.”

“And you have seen nothing more of her?” I inquired interestedly. “There’s no address on the card.”

“She came again two days ago, and finding that you had not returned, left this note, telling me to give it to you on arrival.” And the woman fumbled behind the mirror on the mantelshelf and handed me a dainty note, the envelope of which bore a neat coat-of-arms.

The heading was “88, Gloucester Square, Hyde Park,” and the brief note ran—

“Lady Pierrepoint-Lane would esteem it a favour if Dr Colkirk could make it convenient to call upon her at his earliest opportunity.”

Curiosity prompted me to turn to Debrett’s Baronetage, in Raymond’s bookcase, and from it I discovered that her ladyship was the wife of Sir Henry Pierrepoint-Lane, Bart., a wealthy landowner and the patron of several livings in Yorkshire and Shropshire whose principal seat was Atworth, in Wiltshire. His wife was the eldest daughter of General Sir Charles Naylon, late of the Indian army.

Having re-read the short paragraph in the Baronetage, which gave a facsimile of the coat-of-arms upon the envelope, I sipped my tea and then wrote a short note regretting my absence from home, and stating my intention to call upon the following morning at eleven o’clock. This I dispatched by boy-messenger.

Hence it was that next morning, when I passed down Stanhope Street and turned into Gloucester Gardens, I felt in no mood to humour and sympathise with the whims and imaginary maladies of a fashionable patient.

With a feeling of irritation and low spirits, I mounted the steps of the house in Gloucester Square and inquired for my new patient.

I was ushered into a pretty morning-room, and shortly afterwards there entered a slim, youngish-looking woman, not exactly handsome, but of refined appearance, dark, with hair well coiled by an expert maid, and wearing a simple dress of pearl-grey cashmere, which clung about her form and showed it to distinct advantage. Before she had greeted me I saw that she was a type subject to nerve-storms, perhaps with a craving for stimulants after the reaction.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she exclaimed, crossing the room and greeting me pleasantly. “I received your note last night. You were absent each time I called.”

“Yes,” I responded. “I was called out to an urgent case, and compelled to remain.”

“Does that happen often in your profession?” she asked, sinking into a chair opposite me. “If it does, I fear that doctors’ wives must have an uncomfortable time. Your housekeeper was quite concerned about you.”

“But when one is a bachelor, as I am, absence is not of any great moment,” I laughed.

At that moment her dark, brilliant eyes met mine, and I fancied I detected a strange look in them.

“Well,” she said with some hesitation, “I am very glad you have come at last, Doctor, for I want to consult you upon a secret and very serious matter concerning myself, and to obtain your opinion.”

“I shall be most happy to give you whatever advice lies in my power,” I responded, assuming an air of professional gravity, and preparing myself to listen to her symptoms. “What is the nature of your ailment?” I inquired.

“Well,” she answered, “I can scarcely describe it: I seem in perpetually low spirits, although I have no cause whatever to be sad, and, further, there is a matter which troubles me exceedingly. I hardly like to confess it, but of late I have developed a terrible craving for stimulants.”

I put to her a number of questions which it is unnecessary here to recount, and found her exactly as I had supposed—a bundle of nerves.

“But this unaccountable craving for stimulants is most remarkable,” she went on. “I am naturally a most temperate woman, but nowadays I feel that I cannot live without having recourse to brandy or some other spirit.”

“Sometimes you feel quite well and strong, then suddenly you experience a sensation of being extremely ill?” I suggested.

“Exactly. How do you account for it?”

“The feeling of strength and vigour is not necessarily the outcome of actual strength, any more than is the feeling of weakness the necessary outcome of actual weakness,” I responded. “A person may be weak to a degree, and the sands of life be almost run out, and yet feel overwhelmingly strong and exuberantly happy, and, on the other hand, when in sound and vigorous health, he may feel exhausted and depressed. Feelings, especially so with women of the better class, rise into being in connexion with the nervous system. Whether a person feels well or ill depends upon the structure of his nervous system and the way in which it is played upon, for, like a musical instrument, it may be made to give forth gay music or sad.”

“But is not my case remarkable?” she asked.

“Not at all,” I responded.

“Then you think that you can treat me, and prevent me from becoming a dipsomaniac?” she said eagerly.

“Certainly,” I replied. “I have no doubt that this craving can be removed by proper treatment. I will write you a prescription.”

“Ah?” she exclaimed, with a sigh. “You doctors, with your serums and the like, can nowadays inoculate against almost every disease. Would that you could give us women an immune from that deadly ailment so common among my sex, and so very often fatal.”

“What ailment?” I asked, rather surprised at her sudden and impetuous speech.

“That of love!” she responded in a low, strained voice—the voice of a woman desperate.

Chapter Eight.

What Happened to me.

“Do you consider love an ailment?” I asked, looking at her in quick surprise.

“In many cases,” she responded in a serious tone. “I fear I am no exception to the general rule,” she added meaningly.

Those words amounted to the admission that she had a lover, and I regarded her with considerable astonishment. She was a smart woman. I could only suppose that she and her husband were an ill-assorted pair. Possibly she had married for money, and was now filled with regret, as, alas! is so frequently the case.

“You appear unhappy,” I observed in a sympathetic tone, for my curiosity had been aroused by her words.

“Yes, Doctor,” she answered in a low, intense voice, toying nervously with her fine rings. “To tell the truth, I am most unhappy. I have come up to town to consult you, unknown to my husband, for I have heard that you make the treatment of nervous disorders your speciality.”

“And by whom was I recommended to you?” I inquired, somewhat interested in this new and entirely undeserved fame which I had apparently achieved.

“By an old patient of yours—a lady whom I met at a house-party a month ago, in Yorkshire.”

“But I understood that you were consulting me regarding your craving for stimulants,” I said, as her dark, serious eyes met mine again.

She was a decidedly attractive woman, with the easy air and manner of one brought up in good society.

“The craving for drink is the least dangerous of my ailments,” she responded. “It is the craving for love which is driving me to despair.”

I remained silent for a moment, my eyes fixed upon her.

“Pardon my remark,” I said, at last, in a low tone, “but I gather from your words that some man has come between yourself and your husband.”

“Between myself and my husband!” she echoed in surprise. “Why, no, Doctor. You don’t understand me. I love my husband, and he has no love for me!” Her statement was certainly a most unusual one. She was by no means a simple-minded woman, but, on the contrary, clever and intelligent, with a thorough knowledge of the world. It therefore seemed astounding that she should make this remarkable confession. But I controlled my surprise, and responded—

“You are, unfortunately, but one wife among thousands in exactly the same position. If we only knew the composition of the ancient love-philtre it would be in daily requisition. But, unfortunately, medical science is unable to influence the passion of the heart.”

“Of course,” she sighed. Then, with her eyes cast down upon the small table beside which she was sitting, she added, “I suppose, if the truth were known, you consider me very foolish in making this confession to you, a comparative stranger?”

“I do not consider it foolishness at all,” I hastened to assure her. “A neglected wife must always excite sympathy.”

“And have I yours?”

“Most assuredly,” I answered. “It is evident, from my diagnosis, that you are suffering from sudden and abrupt alterations in the feelings. You are more especially subject to a feeling of malaise, accompanied by mental depression, as at this moment. Therefore, I must endeavour to remove the cause. As regards the affection you bear your husband, I would presume to remind you of the very true adage which declares that ‘Love begets love.’”

“Ah,” she interrupted, “that is untrue in my case.”

“Am I, then, to understand that your husband is attracted by some other person?”

“I really don’t know; I do not know what to think. He is indifferent—that is all.”

“What difference is there in your ages?”

“I am thirty. He is fifty-eight.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “And am I to presume that your marriage was a loveless one?”

“Not at all,” she answered quickly. “I was very fond of him, and he made some pretence of affection.”

“And how many years have you been married?”

“Three,” she responded.

According to “Debrett” she had married five years ago, but for such small untruths a woman may always be forgiven.

I looked at her, unable to entirely satisfy myself regarding her. She seemed suffering from an agitation which she was striving with all her might to control. That her nervous organisation was impaired was no doubt correct, but it struck me that the cause of it all was some sudden and terrible shock to the system.

“I assure you that you have my sympathy in your mental distress,” I said at length. “There have always been fatalists who have argued that we must accept without question what is sent us, that we must bow in submission to a ‘will’ without really seeking to find out what the ‘will’ is.”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “It is quite impossible not to admit that the increased knowledge of the laws which regulate the visible universe has increased our living faith and added to the glory of the Almighty, while it has made it more difficult for men to make gods after their own image and use them for their own purposes.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Modern medicine is teaching us every day that much bodily suffering is due to man’s wilful neglect of the beneficent laws of Nature. That diseases are due to ignorance and disregard of law, and are not ‘sent’ as scourges by a petulant and capricious deity, is clearly a doctrine which in no way dims the glory of God.”

“I quite agree,” she responded. Then, in a low tone, more confidential than before, she added, “You, Doctor, have expressed sympathy for me in my distress, and I look to you for assistance. Curious though it may seem, I have scarcely a single friend in whom I can confide.”

“I shall respect your confidence, as is my duty,” I answered, “and will do my best to stifle your craving for stimuli.”

“But the love of my husband?”

“Endeavour to live uprightly and honestly, and show him your true worth above all other women,” I said. “It is the only way.”

“I have done so,” she answered sadly, “but have failed.”

“Do not give up. A man is never wholly proof against a good woman, especially if that woman be his wife.”

A silence fell between us.

“And may I count upon your aid in all this, Doctor?” she asked, with some hesitation.

“Certainly,” I responded. “If I can give you any advice, I shall always be pleased to do so.”

“But my husband must know nothing. Recollect I have consulted you unknown to him.”

“As you wish, of course.”

“And, in future, if I wish to see you, may I call at your surgery?”

“If you desire,” I replied. “But I am only locum tenens for my friend, Doctor Raymond, who is in the country. Perhaps I may go into practice in the country afterwards.”

“And leave me!” she exclaimed anxiously. “I hope not.”

“I shall still consider you my patient,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I trust that you will regard me as more than a mere patient—as your friend.”

“I am honoured by your friendship,” I replied. “And if I can, at any time, do anything to assist you in this mental trouble of yours, I will do it with pleasure.”

I had, during our conversation, been attracted by her frankness of manner and the evident sorrow which weighed so heavily upon her. She had confessed to me, and we had now become friends. My position was a curious one: the adviser of a woman who was wearing out her heart for her husband’s love. It was not altogether devoid of danger either, for her ladyship was an exceedingly attractive woman.

I had written the prescription and handed it to her, but, apparently in no mood to allow me to go, she did not rise.

While I had been busily writing at the little escritoire her manner had apparently changed, for she was no longer the serious, nervous woman of ten minutes before, but quite gay and vivacious, with a look of triumph in her fine, dark eyes.

“I am very glad, Doctor Colkirk, that you have promised to assist me,” she said, laughing merrily and stretching out her tiny foot from beneath the hem of her skirt with a distinct air of coquetry. “I feel sure that we shall be excellent friends.”

“I hope so,” I replied. “But you must be careful of your general health, and persevere with the treatment.”

“I don’t care much for chemists’ concoctions,” she laughed. “It’s very good of you to have given me this prescription, but I don’t propose to make use of it.”

“Why not?” I inquired in quick surprise.

“Because I only described to you imaginary symptoms,” she laughed mischievously. “I enjoy a glass of port immensely after dinner, but further than that never touch stimulants, nor have any inclination for them.”

“So you have deceived me,” I said severely, for it seemed as though she wished to poke fun at me.

“Yes. But I hope you will forgive me,” she answered, laughing.

“I cannot see what motive you can have in calling me in to describe a malady from which you are not suffering. A doctor’s time is valuable.”

“I had a motive.”

“And pray what was it?”

“Well, I wished to make your acquaintance,” she answered boldly, without hesitation.

“You adopted a rather unusual course,” I remarked, somewhat annoyed.

“I think, under the circumstances, this little ruse of mine may possibly be forgiven,” she answered. “I am not the first woman who has called in a doctor professionally merely in order to make his acquaintance.”

“And for what reason did you wish to know me?”

“I trust you are not annoyed with me?” she exclaimed. “You must admit that I acted the part of the nervous woman so well that even you, a medical man, were, deceived.”

“I admit that you have taken an unfair advantage of me,” I answered calmly, wondering why she should thus have sought my acquaintance.

“But you will forgive me, Doctor, won’t you?” she urged.

“If you will tell me the reason you were so desirous of meeting me.”

“I wanted to know you.”

“Why?”

“I had seen you in the distance many times, and desired to become personally acquainted with you.”

“For what reason?”

She hesitated, and I thought I detected a faint blush upon her cheek.

“I—well, I wished to number you among my friends.”

“Then I presume that the story regarding your husband is also a fiction?” I said, surprised that I had previously formed such an entirely wrong impression of her.

“No, not exactly,” she responded. “I hope to have the pleasure of introducing you to him some day ere long.”

“I shall of course be delighted,” I answered in a tone which I fear did not convey any desire on my part to be honoured by the baronet’s acquaintance. “But, having deceived me as you have to-day, I confess that my confidence is somewhat shaken.”

She laughed and raised her hand to her hair.

“Ah! it is always best to commence by being enemies and to end by being friends.”

“You intend, then, that we shall be friends?”

“Of course. That is the reason why I asked you to call on me.”

“But where have you seen me?”

“Oh, in lots of places,” she answered vaguely. Her attitude was very strange. Could it be possible that she had seen me, and, becoming attracted by my personal appearance, had found out who and what I was? Was it possible that she intended that I should be her lover?

The thought flashed across my mind as she sat there smiling upon me, displaying an even row of pearly teeth, while her face was radiant with triumph and happiness. I had promised friendship to this woman, who had so cleverly formed my acquaintance.

“Tell me one place where we have met,” I asked, for, to my knowledge, I had never set eyes upon her before that morning.

“You were having supper at the Savoy with your friend, Doctor Raymond, one night three weeks ago,” she answered. “On the following evening you both dined together at the exhibition at Earl’s Court.”

“And you saw us at both places?” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Yes,” she laughed. “You see how well acquainted I have been with your recent movements.”

“I had no idea that any lady had been taking an interest in my unimportant self,” I laughed.

Yes, it was true, this woman was seeking to fascinate me by those wiles so purely feminine. But I laughed within myself, for I was fortunately proof against it all. The incident was decidedly amusing. Of a verity the doctor is bound to steel his heart against many feminine blandishments.

Ere the words had left my lips, however, our conversation was interrupted by a woman’s voice outside the room, crying merrily—

“Nora! Nora! Where are you? We shall be so awfully late!”

And an instant later a young girl, dressed to go out, burst gaily into the room. She drew back with a quick word of apology when she recognised that her ladyship was not alone, but at sight of her I sat there dumb-stricken and rigid as a statue.

Was I dreaming? Could it be, after all, only a mere chimera of an excited imagination? No; I knew myself to be in full possession of all my faculties. The mystery was inscrutable. There before me, somewhat abashed by her own unceremonious intrusion, her soft cheeks slightly flushed, radiant and in perfect health, stood my dead wife in the flesh!

Chapter Nine.

A Maze of Mystery.

I sat erect in my chair, open-mouthed, unable to move. My eyes were riveted upon the slim graceful form before me. I held my breath in wonder. She wore a smart tailor-made gown of pale fawn, with a large black hat which suited her admirably, while across the face—every feature of which had been so indelibly photographed upon my memory—was a thin gauzy veil which only served to heighten, rather than to conceal, her striking beauty.

“I’m so sorry to have disturbed you,” she exclaimed, turning to her ladyship. “But I hadn’t any idea that you had a visitor.”

“Oh,” laughed the other, “our conversation is not at all of a private character. Let me introduce you.” Then, turning to me, she said—

“This is my cousin, Feo Ashwicke—Doctor Colkirk.”

My wife turned to me and bowed, a sweet smile upon her lips.

“I hope, Doctor, you will forgive me for bounding into the room like this,” she said.

“Certainly,” I answered, still gazing at her like a man in a dream.

She had been introduced to me as Feo Ashwicke, the cousin of this rather curious woman, Lady Pierrepoint-Lane. Yet there could be no doubt that she was actually Beryl Wynd, the sweet-faced girl whom I had seen lying dead in that house of mystery eight days before.

Neither our introduction nor the mention of my name had in the least disconcerted her. She remained perfectly frank and natural, betraying not the slightest surprise. Could it be possible that she was not aware of her marriage with me?

I looked straight into her clear blue eyes. Neither appeared affected. Nevertheless, had I not, on that fatal night, seen the strange contraction of the pupil, which had rendered one—the left eye—sightless and so strange-looking?

She was talking to her cousin, and thus I had opportunity of regarding her critically. Her hands were gloved, therefore I could not see whether she still wore the ring I had placed upon her finger. Still, if she were really Feo Ashwicke, what motive had she in masquerading as the daughter of that crafty scoundrel Wyndham Wynd?

I longed to speak plainly to her and seek some explanation, yet at that moment it was impossible. Her frank and open manner rendered it quite evident that to her I was an utter stranger.

It was this failure on her part to recognise my name that aroused within my mind a doubt whether, after all, her personal appearance only bore a very striking resemblance to that of my mysterious wife.

“Nora always forgets her engagements,” she laughed, turning to me. “This morning we’ve got quite a host of places to go to and things to buy, for we leave town again to-night. After breakfast we arranged to go out together at eleven, and she’s actually forgotten all about it!”

“Short memories are sometimes useful,” I remarked with a smile.

“I hope that is not meant for sarcasm, Doctor,” protested the baronet’s wife.

“I am never sarcastic at the expense of my patients,” I responded.

“But I presume I am a friend. Do your friends fare any better?”

“With my friends it is quite different. I myself am generally the object of their sarcasm.”

They both laughed.

“How hot it is this morning,” observed the mysterious Feo. “I’ve only been in town three days, and shall be very glad to get back again into the country.”

“To what part are you going?” I inquired.

“Only to Whitton, near Hounslow, to visit the Chetwodes. Do you know them?”

“No,” I replied. “Are you staying there long?”

“Oh, a fortnight or so,” she replied. “The Chetwode girls were at school with me near Paris, and we are very good friends. They always have a big house-party at this time of the year, and there is usually lots of fun.”

“You’re quite right, dear,” exclaimed her cousin, rising. “We must really make haste if we are to do all our shopping and catch the five o’clock from Waterloo. In Maud’s letter, this morning, she says she will send the carriage to meet that train.”

I rose also. I was loth to leave the presence of this charming girl, who was undoubtedly my bride, but who, it appeared, was entirely unconscious of the fact. Yet the woman who had called me in for consultation, and had acted so strangely that it almost seemed as though she had fallen in love with me, had pointedly dismissed me; therefore I was compelled to take my leave.

“I hope, Doctor, that we shall see something more of you on our return to town,” her ladyship said, as we shook hands. “Recollect our conversation of this morning,” she added meaningly.

“Of course I shall be most delighted to call and see how you have progressed,” I responded. “You have the prescription, and I hope you will persevere with it.”

“If I feel worse.” She laughed, and I knew that she did not mean to have the mixture made up. She had shammed illness very cleverly. I was amused and annoyed at the same moment.

“I hope Doctor Colkirk will dine with us here one evening,” said the woman who was my bride. “I’m sure Sir Henry would be charmed to meet him.”

“Yes,” answered her cousin; “only he must not know that I have consulted him professionally. That must be kept a secret.”

“All women love secrets,” I remarked.

“And men also,” responded Feo. “Some appear to think that a little mystery adds an additional zest to life.”

Her words were strange ones, and seemed to have been uttered with some abstruse meaning.

“Do you yourself think so?” I inquired, looking earnestly into those bright eyes of clear, childlike blue, that were so plainly indicative of a purity of soul.

“Well, I scarcely know,” she responded, returning my glance unflinchingly. “We all of us have some little mystery or other in our lives, I suppose.”

I had taken her hand in adieu, and was still holding it.

“And are you no exception?”

“Ah! now, Doctor, you’re really too inquisitive.” And she laughed, just a trifle unnaturally I thought, as though I had approached an unwelcome topic.

“Well,” I said smiling, “I won’t press you further; it isn’t fair. Good-bye, and I trust I shall meet both your cousin and yourself at a date not far distant—that is, if I am still in town.”

“Oh, I hope you will be!” exclaimed her ladyship; “I can’t think why doctors go and bury themselves in the country.”

“There are just as many patients in the country districts as in the towns,” I responded. “And in the country one carries on one’s profession amid more congenial surroundings.”

I repeated my farewells, and, with a final and longing glance at my mysterious wife, went forth into the hall, and was let out by the liveried servant.

To approach my wife boldly and demand the truth was, I saw, useless. First I must, by my own careful observation, establish her identity with Beryl Wynd, and, secondly, clear up the mystery of how a woman could be dead and yet still live.

The expression of those clear, honest eyes, the form of the beautiful face, as flawless as that of Titian’s “Flora” in the Tribune of the Uffizzi, the unusual tint of that gold-brown hair were all unmistakable. They set at rest any doubt which arose within me that the woman whose hand I had held was not the same upon whose finger I had placed the wedding-ring. Incredible though it seemed, I had that morning spoken with my unknown wife, and she had not known me. We were strangers, yet united in matrimony.

Mechanically I walked towards Kensington Church in order to take the omnibus back to Hammersmith. My mind was filled with the mystery of my marriage and the reason why the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds had been offered me if I would consent to secretly kill my bride.

Certain it was that I had been the victim of a cunningly devised plot, and further, that the fact of my return to London was known to those who had conspired against me. Therefore, it behoved me to exercise considerable care and caution in the prosecution of my inquiries. The two scoundrels, Wyndham Wynd and Major Tattersett, must, I resolved, be discovered at all hazards, while I must also leave no stone unturned to find out the house in which the marriage had taken place.

The man Wynd had intended that my wife should die, but it was plain that, by some good fortune, she had escaped him. Yet the most curious phase of the affair was that she appeared utterly unconscious of it all.

It struck me that I might, by dint of careful questioning, learn something from Sir Henry’s wife. But she was, I knew, a clever, intelligent woman; and if she held a secret, it would be exceedingly difficult to obtain knowledge of it.

I returned to Rowan Road, and, on entering with my latch-key, found Bob standing in the hall.

“Why, my dear fellow?” he cried; “I had a wire to say you were missing, and so came up to look after you. Where, in the name of fortune, have you been?”

“I’ve been abroad,” I responded vaguely.

“Abroad!” he cried incredulously. “Why? What made you go abroad?”

“I’ll tell you all when we get upstairs,” I answered; and we ascended together to the little den.

Then, over our pipes, I related to him the curious story.

“Well,” he declared, in profound amazement. “I’ve never heard of a stranger adventure than that! Do you mean to say that you’re actually married?”

“Without a doubt. A special licence was obtained and the marriage is, therefore, quite legal. The most remarkable fact of all is, that while I know my wife, she doesn’t know me. To her I’m a perfect stranger.”

“But the fellow, Wynd, whoever he is, is evidently no novice in crime,” Bob declared thoughtfully. “The contraction of the eye was a curious symptom.”

“Yes. It was in the pupil of the left eye.”

“And yet the girl you have met to-day is perfectly sound in both eyes?” he remarked.

“Perfectly.”

“But, my dear fellow, it can’t be! If she were dead, as you say, she can’t, as you yourself know, be still alive.”

“That’s just where the mystery becomes so inscrutable?” I cried. “The woman whom I married evidently died. Indeed, I’d have given a certificate of death and backed it by my professional reputation. Yet she’s alive and well, and I have, only an hour ago, spoken with her.”

“Bless my soul?” cried Bob. “Most extraordinary thing I’ve ever heard of! There must have been some very strong reason why you should marry her, or that scoundrel Wynd would not have offered such a sum. He evidently wished to get her married, and then do away with her for reasons which I hope we shall, some day, be able to discover. The thing’s a complete enigma,” he went on, “and if I can help you to solve it, Dick, I’ll do so willingly. In my opinion there’s a great deal more in this affair than we dream of. The whole thing seems to have been most carefully worked out, and I shouldn’t wonder if her ladyship has not had a hand in the affair. She seems too bold; and therefore I have suspicions of her.”

“So have I, old fellow,” I said. “The strongest suspicions. Her very words have betrayed her.”

“Unless”—he hesitated—“unless she saw you at the Savoy when we fed together in honour of my birth, and was struck by your appearance—in fact, to put it plainly, unless she has fallen in love with you.”

“But why?” I demanded. “I’ve never met the woman before, to my knowledge.”

“But you’re a good-looking Johnnie, my dear Dick,” my friend declared, laughing; “and she’s certainly not the first woman who has fallen over head and ears in love with you.”

“You’re devilish complimentary, old chap,” I answered; “but if she is, as you think, really attracted towards me, then she’ll have a cruel awakening when she finds that I’m actually the husband of her cousin Feo.”

“That’s just what I’ve been thinking,” he replied, with a serious expression on his face. “Your position is an exceedingly difficult one, and the inquiries must be made with the utmost tact and care. At all hazards you must humour her ladyship, and retain her as your friend. Indeed if, as you say, your wife is not aware that you are actually her husband, then it might not be a bad plan to flatter her ladyship by making violent love to her.”

“I can’t, Bob,” I declared. “In this matter I must at least act straightforwardly. Feo has fallen a victim, just as I myself have—that’s evident.”

“You were entrapped, it’s true; but I take it that you really admire this mysterious Feo?”

“Admire her!” I cried with enthusiasm. “That’s the most curious feature of the whole affair. I freely confess to you, my dear fellow, that not only do I admire her, but I’m madly in love with her! She’s the most graceful and beautiful woman I’ve ever beheld.”

“Well, Dick,” he observed after a pause, during which time he puffed vigorously at his big briar, “you are about the last man I should have suspected of having a romance. Every detail of it is, however, bewildering. It’s a perfect maze of mystery—a mystery absolutely incredible!”

Chapter Ten.

The Major.

On the following day I was seized by a burning desire to again see the woman whom I had so strangely grown to love. Time after time I discussed the matter with Bob, and he was full of my opinion that I might, by watching my wife’s movements, discover some fact which might give me a clue.

I proposed to Bob that I should go straight to her and make a full explanation, but he urged patience and diplomacy.

“Go down to Whitton and watch her at a distance, if you like,” he answered. “But be very careful that you are not recognised. No man cares to be spied upon. In this matter you must exercise the greatest discretion, if you really intend to get to the bottom of this puzzling affair.”

“I do intend to solve the enigma,” I declared. “If I’m ten years over it, I mean to claim Feo as my wife.”

“You can’t do that until you’ve obtained absolute proof.”

“And, in the meantime, Wynd and his accomplice may make another attempt upon her life,” I observed dubiously.

“Forewarned is forearmed,” he answered. “It seems your duty to act in secret as her protector.”

“Exactly. That’s my object in going down to Whitton. Somehow I feel sure that her life is insecure, for the facts plainly show that Wynd’s motive was to get rid of her.”

“Without a doubt. Go down to Hounslow to-morrow and discover what you can regarding these friends of hers, the Chetwodes, and their associates. In inquiries of this sort you must carefully work back.”

Now, I had for years rather prided myself upon my shrewdness. I had often set myself the task of clearing up those little unimportant mysteries of life which occur to every man; and more than once, while at the hospital, I had rendered service to the police in their inquiries.

That same afternoon, while Bob was out visiting his patients, I chanced to put my hand in the ticket-pocket of my frock-coat, and felt something there. The coat was the one I had worn when called out to become the husband of Feo Ashwicke, and from the pocket I drew a half-smoked cigarette.

I am not in the habit of placing cigarette ends in my pockets, and could not, at first, account for its presence there; but, on examination, I saw that it was the remains of one of an unusual brand, for upon the paper were tiny letters in Greek printed in blue ink. A second’s reflection, however, decided me: it was the cigarette which the Major had given me. It had gone out while I had been speaking, and with it in my hand I had rushed upstairs to my wife’s room, and instead of casting it away had, I suppose, thrust it into my pocket, where it had remained unheeded until that moment.

I examined it with the utmost care and great interest. Then I descended to Bob’s little dispensary, at the back of the house, and, finding a microscope, took out some of the tobacco and placed it beneath the lens. Tiny but distinct crystals were revealed clinging to the finely-cut tobacco, crystals of some subtle poison which, dissolved by the saliva while in the act of smoking, entered the system.

The cigarette had narrowly proved fatal to me.

At once I lit the spirit-lamp, cleaned and dried some test-tubes, and set busily to work to make solutions with the object of discovering the drug. But although I worked diligently the whole afternoon, and Bob, on returning, assisted me, we were unable to determine exactly what it was.

The remainder of the cigarette, including the paper bearing the mark of manufacture, I carefully preserved, and on the following morning went down to Hounslow to ascertain what I could regarding my unconscious wife. Bob remained at Rowan Road to look after his patients, but declared his intention of relieving me if any watching were required. Therefore, I went forth eager to ascertain some fact that would lead me to a knowledge of the truth.

Hounslow, although but a dozen miles from Charing Cross, was, I found, a dull, struggling place, the dismal quiet of which was only relieved by a few boisterous militiamen in its long street.

I took up my quarters at the historic Red Lion, and over a whisky-and-soda made inquiries of the plethoric landlord as to the whereabouts of Whitton. It lay beyond the town, half-way towards Twickenham, he told me.

“There’s a Whitton Park, isn’t there?” I inquired.

“Yes; Colonel Chetwode’s place. That’s just before you get to Whitton Church.”

“It’s a large house, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes; he’s the squire there, and magistrate, and all that.”

“I’ve heard his name,” I said, “but I’ve never seen him. What sort of a man is he?”

“Oh, a bit stand-offish, tall, thin, and grey-haired. We hotel-keepers don’t like ’im, because he’s always down on us on the licensing-days over at Brentford,” the man replied, chewing his cheap cigar.

“He’s married, isn’t he?”

“Yes; he married ’is second wife about three years ago. She’s a good-looking woman with reddish hair. They say she don’t get on very well with the Colonel’s grown-up son.”

“Oh,” I remarked, at once interested. “How old is the son?”

“About twenty-five. He’s a jolly fellow ’e is. He’s a lieutenant in the 7th Hussars, and they’re stationed here just now. He often comes in and gets a drink when e’ passes.”

“And he doesn’t hit it off well with his stepmother?”

“No; I’ve heard some queer stories about their quarrels from the servants,” he answered. He was a gossip, like all landlords of inns, and seemed extremely communicative because I had asked him to drink with me. The effect of a shilling spent upon drink is ofttimes amazing.

“Stepmothers are generally intruders,” I laughed. “Well, things came to such a pass down at the Park, a month or two ago, that Mrs Chetwode demanded that the Colonel should turn young Mr Cyril out of the house, and threatened that if he did not she would leave. The Colonel, so it’s said, grew furious, stormed down the place, and in the end Mrs Chetwode packed her trunks and went with Sherman, her maid, to Switzerland. About three weeks ago the Colonel followed her and brought her back, so I suppose they’ve made it up again.”

“Do they entertain many friends?”

“Oh yes, there’s always visitors there; it’s so near to London, you see.”

“Do you know the names of any of the visitors?” I inquired. Adding, “I think a friend of mine comes down to see them sometimes—a Sir Pierrepoint-Lane.”

“Oh yes,” he said; “I’ve seen both Sir Henry and his wife driving. They’ve got a place somewhere in Wiltshire, I’ve heard. They’re great friends of Mrs Chetwode’s.”

“And there’s a Miss Ashwicke who comes with them,” I said eagerly. “Do you know her?”

“I may know her by sight,” the man replied, “but I don’t know her by name.”

“She’s tall, blue-eyed, with golden-brown hair. Very pretty, and always very smartly dressed.”

“Yes; she wears a big black hat, and very often a drab-coloured dress. When she smiles she shows her teeth very prettily,” he said.

“That’s her, no doubt.”

“Well,” he said, “her description is exact. She’s Mr Cyril’s young lady.”

“What?” I cried, starting up in surprise.

“When she’s down here she’s always about with the Colonel’s son, and everybody says they’re engaged,” he went on. “The servants have told me that they’re a most devoted couple.”

“But is that lady the same one that I mean?” I inquired dubiously.

“I don’t know her surname, but her Christian name is Miss Beryl.”

“Beryl?” I gasped. Could this be the actual truth, that she was engaged to young Chetwode?

Beryl! Then she was evidently known here by the name in which she had married me—Beryl Wynd.

“Is she often here?” I asked at last, when I found voice again. I was so upset by this statement, that with difficulty I remained calm.

“Oh yes, very often; especially now that Mr Cyril is at the barracks. They ride out together every morning, and are very often about in the town in the afternoon. You’ll no doubt see them.”

“Ah,” I said, with the object of misleading my garrulous informant, “it can’t be the lady I mean, as her name is not Beryl.”

“The description is very much like her,” he observed, knocking the ash from his cigar.

“Is there any talk of young Chetwode marrying?” I inquired.

“Well, yes, there are rumours of course,” he answered. “Some say that the Colonel is against it, while others say that Mrs Chetwode is jealous of her stepson, so one doesn’t know exactly what to believe.”

“I suppose you hear a lot of gossip about them, eh?”

“Oh, a lot. Much, too, that ain’t true,” he laughed. “Why, somebody said once that Miss Beryl was the daughter of an officer who got sent to penal servitude.”

“Who said that?” I said, at once pricking up my ears. Was it not Major Tattersett who had accompanied her to the registry at Doctors’ Commons, and who had given me that cigarette?

“Oh, it was a story that got about.”

“Did they say who the officer was? or what was his offence?”

“He was a major in the Guards, they said.”

“You didn’t hear his name?”

“No, I’ve never heard her name. Everybody here knows her as Miss Beryl. But it would be easy enough to find out.” And, rising, he leant forward into the tap-room, where a rural postman was sitting, hot and dusty, drinking ale from a pewter, and shouted, “I say, Allen, what’s the name of Mr Chetwode’s young lady?”

“The young lady that’s so often at the Park? Why, Miss Beryl Wynd.”

I sat motionless for some moments. The truth seemed plain—that she had allowed herself to be introduced to me at Gloucester Square under an alias. For what reason, I wondered?

She was undoubtedly in love with this young lieutenant of Hussars. If so, then she would seek to preserve the secret of her marriage, and even repudiate it if necessary. The rumours of her being the daughter of a disgraced officer was another curious feature. It almost appeared as if there were some truth underlying it.

“You hear what the postman says, sir,” observed the landlord, turning again to me. “He knows, because he delivers the letters at the Park. Her name is Wynd—funny name, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I answered mechanically, for the discovery that this young Chetwode was the accepted suitor of my love was a staggering blow. What could I do? How should I act?

She was my wife by law—mine.

I rose, announcing that I was going for a stroll, and, walked unsteadily out into the long, deserted street. I wandered down the Hanworth Road, past rows of cottages with gardens filled with flowers, to the station, and, crossing the bridge, soon found myself before the old-fashioned lodge at the entrance to Whitton Park.

I was curious to investigate the place, and, noticing that the lodge-keeper’s house was shut, while one of the smaller of the great ornamental iron gates stood open, I strolled in, continuing up the avenue for a quarter of a mile or so, when suddenly the drive swept round past a pretty lake, and I came in full view of the house.

It was a splendid old Elizabethan mansion. Before it was a pretty, old-world garden with an ancient sundial in the centre, while to the right was a well-kept modern tennis-court where people were playing, while afternoon tea was being served to the remainder of the house-party.

There were fully a dozen people there, the men in flannels and the women in cool muslins with bright sunshades. Risks of detection, however, prevented me from approaching close enough to clearly distinguish the faces of the hostess and her guests; therefore I stood hidden by the bushes, watching the game, and trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the countenances of the chattering circle of tea-drinkers.

Suddenly a figure in pale yellow rose and crossed to the side of a foppishly-dressed young man who, sitting somewhat apart, was smoking and intently watching the game. The smartness of the figure, the narrow waist, wide hips, and swinging gait were familiar.

Although I could not distinguish her features, I knew that it was my wife—the woman who was ignorant of her marriage, and whom I loved with such a fond, mad passion.

The man rose, pulled a chair forward for her, and then both sat down together to chat. He fetched her some tea, and then sat hugging his knees, apparently engrossed in conversation. She seemed to hold him beneath the spell of her marvellous beauty, just as she held me.

Could it be that that man, whose face I could not see clearly, was Cyril Chetwode, her lover?

I was standing there, my eyes riveted upon the pair, when the sound of a footstep on the gravel caused me to turn quickly. Some one was approaching. I at once drew back behind the trunk of a great elm near which I was standing, for my discovery there as an intruder might upset all my plans.

The figure came forward slowly, for I could hear that they were deliberate footsteps, as though of a person waiting and pacing up and down. I peeped out to ascertain who it was, and as I did so the figure of a man in a soft felt hat and a suit of grey tweed came cautiously into view.

My heart leapt up in quick surprise.

It was the man who, by giving me that cigarette, had made the dastardly attempt upon my life that had been so nearly successful—the man of whom I had been in active search—Major Tattersett.

His single eyeglass was still in his eye, and his hat was set upon his head as jauntily as on the day when we had first met, but, for the eagerness of his countenance as he gazed forward to where my wife sat, I saw that he was not one of the house-party, and felt confident that his presence there was with secret and evil intent.

Chapter Eleven.

Voices of the Night.

From my place of concealment I was able to watch the Major closely without risk of detection.

His presence there boded no good. He had crept slowly up the avenue until within sight of the house, and was intently scanning the gay party assembled on the lawn. Was it possible that he had walked behind me and watched me enter there?

He was scarcely as smart in appearance as on the day when he led my bride up the aisle of the church, and had afterwards handed me the cigarette; but, nevertheless, he retained the distinctly foppish air of the man-about-town. For a few moments only he remained there eagerly scanning the distant group, and then, as though reassured, he turned on his heel and retraced his steps towards the lodge.

Determined to watch his movements, I followed him until he gained Hounslow Station, and there I saw him turn into a low-built, old-fashioned inn, where I afterwards discovered he had been staying for a couple of days.

That some conspiracy was being formed, I could not doubt, therefore I set myself to keep strict watch upon him—no easy matter, for from hour to hour I feared that he might recognise me. It was he who had petitioned the Archbishop for the special licence for our marriage; he who had, with some mysterious motive, posed as the father of the woman I now loved. Surely she must have known that he was not her father, and, if so, she herself had taken a part in a plot which had so nearly cost her her life.

But was she not dead when I found her lying there? The puzzle was bewildering.

The Major’s movements might possibly give me some clue. It was fortunate that we had met.

At a cheap clothier’s I had purchased a rough secondhand suit and a bowler hat, much the worse for wear, and these I had assumed in order to alter my appearance as much as possible. About nine o’clock that same night, while I stood idling about the station with my eye ever upon the inn opposite, my vigilance was suddenly rewarded, for the Major emerged leisurely, carefully lit a cigar, and then strolled across the railway bridge and down the road towards Whitton. Darkness had not quite set in, therefore I hesitated to follow him; but, fortunately, I had explored the neighbourhood thoroughly during the past few hours, and knew that by crossing to the opposite platform of the station, I could gain a footpath which led through fields and market-gardens, emerging into the high-road almost opposite the gates of the park.

This byway I took, and, hurrying down it, arrived at the point near the lodge fully five minutes before he appeared along the road. The gates were, however, closed.

Would he ring and demand admittance? I wondered.

When about two hundred yards from the gates he suddenly halted, glanced up and down the road as though to make certain that no one was watching, and then, bending down, squeezed himself through a hole in the wooden fencing and disappeared. He evidently knew that the gates were locked, and had already discovered that mode of entry, if indeed he had not broken away the palings himself earlier in the day.

Without hesitation I hurried forward over the grass by the roadside, so that he might not hear my footsteps, and, discovering the hole in the paling, entered after him. I found myself in the midst of hawthorn bushes and thick undergrowth, but, pausing and listening intently, I soon detected which direction he had taken by the noise of breaking twigs. For some ten minutes I remained there, fearing to move lest the noise might alarm him; but when at last he was out of hearing I crept forward, breaking my way through in the direction of the avenue. The night was hot and so still that each sound seemed to awaken the echoes.

With the greatest caution I crept on, walking noiselessly over the grass in the direction of the house.

As soon as the old mansion came into view I saw that lights burned in many of the windows, and from the drawing-rooms, where the open doors led on to the lawn, came the living strains of dance music.

From where I stood I could see the high lamps with their shades of yellow silk, and now and then bright dresses flashed past the long windows. A couple of figures were strolling up and down before the house. I could see their white shirt-fronts in the darkness, and knew that they were men smoking and enjoying the night air.

The two men at last tossed away their cigar ends and entered the house: thus I became encouraged to approach closer, cross the lawn, and peep through one of the side windows of the drawing-room. Fully a dozen people were there, but as I gazed around I was disappointed not to see my love. I had risked discovery and detection to obtain sight of her, but she was not present, neither was her cousin Nora. Most of the guests seemed smart people, judging from the women’s toilettes, and all were lolling about with the air of laziness which overcomes one after a good dinner. Dancing had ended, and, as I watched, a young dark-haired girl approached the piano and commenced to sing a song by which I knew that she was French.

I peered in through those windows eager for a glimpse of Beryl. Surely she was not like those others? No, I recollected her calm dignity and sweet grace when I had spoken to her. She, at least, was high-minded and womanly. I was glad she was not there to hear that song.

The singer sat down, having finished, amid roars of applause, and then the conversation was resumed; but at that instant I became conscious of some one passing near me, and had only just time to draw back into the shadow and thus escape observation. It was one of the guests, a man who lounged slowly along, the glowing end of his cigar shining in the darkness, alone; he was apparently full of recollections, for he passed slowly and mechanically onward without noticing me. Unable to see his face, I could only detect that he was rather above the average height, and, by his silhouette, I saw that he stooped slightly.

The encounter, however, caused me to recede from the house, for I had no desire to be detected there and compelled to give an account of myself. I was in shabby clothes, and if found in the vicinity might be suspected of an intention to commit a theft.

Where was the Major? He had certainly entered there, but had escaped my vigilance by passing through the thicket. I had been there nearly half an hour, yet had not been able to re-discover him. The lawn on one side was bounded by a light iron fencing, beyond which was a thick wood, and upon this fencing I mounted, and sat to rest in full view of the house and the long window of the drawing-room. In the deep shadow of the trees I waited there, safe from detection, listening to the music, which had recommenced, and wondering what had become of the man whom I had tried to follow. He seemed to have avoided the house and gone to the opposite side of the park.

Although I could actually see into the circle of assembled guests, yet I was so far off that I could only distinguish the women by the colour of their gowns. Had Beryl returned to join them? I wondered. I was longing for a single glance at her dear face—that face sweeter than any other in the world.

A woman in a cream dress, cut low at the neck, came suddenly to the doorway and peered forth into the night as though in search of some one, but a moment later had disappeared; and again the piano broke forth with the pretty minuet from Manon.

I had, I felt certain, been there almost, if not quite, an hour; therefore I was resolved to make a tour of the park in an endeavour to find the man whose suspicious movements had so interested me earlier in the evening. With that object in view I leaped down upon the lawn, crossed it until I reached the edge of the lake, which I skirted until I gained a rustic bridge which crossed the tiny brook that rippled over the stones and fell into the pool.

Of a sudden I heard a sound. It was quite distinct, like a half-suppressed cough. I halted in surprise, but no other sound reached my ear. Could I have been mistaken? The noise seemed very human, yet I knew that in the darkness of night the most usual sound becomes exaggerated and distorted. Therefore reassured I continued my way by the narrow, unfrequented path, which, leaving the lakeside, struck across the park and led me across a stile into a dark belt of wood.

Scarcely had I entered it, however, when I heard human voices distinctly. I halted and listened. An owl hooted weirdly, and there was a dead silence.

I wondered whether the persons I had surprised had detected my presence. I stood upon the narrow path holding my breath so that I could catch every sound.

A couple of minutes passed. To me they seemed as hours. Then, again, the voices sounded away to the left, apparently on the edge of the wood. Noiselessly I retraced my steps to the stile, and then found that from it there ran a path beside the iron railing, whither I knew not. But somewhere down that path two persons were in consultation.

Treading carefully, so that my footsteps should not be overheard, I crept down the path until, of a sudden, I caught sight of a woman’s white dress in the gloom. Then, sufficiently close to overhear, I halted with strained ears.

I was hidden behind a high hazel bush, but could just distinguish against that reddish glare which shines in the sky of the outskirts of London on a summer’s night, two silhouettes, those of a man and a woman. The former had halted, and was leaning against the railing, while the latter, with a shawl twisted about her shoulders, stood facing him.

“If you had wished you could certainly have met me before this,” the man was grumbling. “I’ve waited at the stile there a solid hour. Besides, it was a risky business with so many people about.”

“I told you not to come here,” she answered; and in an instant I recognised the voice. They were the sweet, musical tones of the woman who was my wife.

“Of course,” laughed her companion sardonically. “But, you see, I prefer the risk.” And I knew by the deep note that the man who stood by her was the Major.

“Why?” she inquired. “The risk is surely mine in coming out to meet you?”

“Bah! women can always make excuses,” he laughed. “I should not have made this appointment if it were not imperative that we should meet.”

“Well?” she sighed. “What do you want of me now?”

“I want to talk to you seriously.”

“With the usual request to follow,” she observed wearily. “You want money—eh?”

“Money? Oh no,” he said, with bitter sarcasm. “I can do without it. I can live on air, you know.”

“That’s better than prison fare, I should have thought,” she answered grimly.

“Ah, now, my dear, you’re sarcastic,” he said, with a touch of irony. “That doesn’t become you.”

“Well, tell me quickly what you want, and let me get back, or they will miss me.”

“You mean that your young lover will want to know with whom you’ve been flirting, eh? Well, you can mislead him again, as you’ve done many times before. What a fine thing it is to be an accomplished liar. I always envy people who can lie well, for they get through life so easily.” He spoke in a familiar tone, as though he held her beneath an influence that was irresistible.

“I am no liar,” she protested quickly. “The lies I have been compelled to tell have been at your own instigation.”

“And to save yourself,” he added, with a dry, harsh laugh. “But I didn’t bring you here for an exchange of compliments.”

Chapter Twelve.

The Morning After.

“Then why have you compelled me to meet you again?” she demanded fiercely, in a tone which showed her abhorrence of him. “The last time we met you told me that you were going abroad. Why haven’t you gone?”

“I’ve been and come back again.”

“Where?”

“That’s my business,” he answered very calmly. “Your welcome home is not a very warm one, to say the least.”

“I have no welcome for my enemies.”

“Oh! I’m an enemy—eh? Well,” he added, “I have always considered myself your friend.”

“Friend!” she echoed. “You show your friendliness in a rather curious manner. You conceive these dastardly plots, and then compel me to do your bidding—to act as your decoy!”

“Come, come,” he laughed, his temper quite unruffled by her accusation, “you know that in all my actions I am guided by your interests as well as my own.”

“I was certainly not aware of it,” she responded. “It cannot be to my interest that you compel me to meet you here like this, at the risk of discovery. Would it not have been better if our meeting had taken place in London, as before?”

“Necessity has driven me to make this appointment,” he responded. “To write to you is dangerous, and I wanted to give you warning so that you can place yourself in a position of security.”

“A warning!—of what?” she asked breathlessly.

“La Gioia is here.”

“La Gioia!” she gasped. “Here? Impossible!” La Gioia! It was the name I had found written upon the piece of paper beneath her pillow.

“Unfortunately, it is the truth,” he responded in an earnest voice. “The contretemps is serious.”

“Serious!” she cried in alarm. “Yes, it is serious; and through you I am thus placed in peril!”

“How do you intend to act?”

“I have no idea,” she responded, in a hoarse tone. “I am tired of it all, and driven to despair—I am sick to death of this eternal scheming, this perpetual fear lest the terrible truth should become known. God knows how I have suffered during this past year. Ah, how a woman can suffer and still live! I tell you,” she cried, with sudden desperation, “this dread that haunts me continually will drive me to take my life!”

“Rubbish!” he laughed. “Keep up your pluck. With a little ingenuity a woman can deceive the very devil himself.”

“I tell you,” she said. “I am tired of life—of you—of everything. I have nothing to live for—nothing to gain by living!”

Her voice was the voice of a woman driven to desperation by the fear that her secret should become known.

“Well,” he laughed brutally, “you’ve certainly nothing to gain by dying, my dear.”

“You taunt me!” she cried in anger. “You who hold me irrevocably in this bond of guilt—you who compel me to act as your accomplice in these vile schemes! I hate you!”

“Without a doubt,” he responded, with a short laugh. “And yet I have done nothing to arouse this feeling of antagonism.”

“Nothing! Do you then think so lightly of all the past?”

“My dear girl,” he said, “one should never think of what has gone by. It’s a bad habit. Look to your own safety, and to the future.”

“La Gioia is here!” she repeated in a low voice, as though unable to fully realise all that the terrible announcement meant. “Well, how do you intend to act?”

“My actions will be guided by circumstances,” he replied. “And you?”

She was silent. The stillness of the night was broken only by the dismal cry of a night-bird down near the lake.

“I think it is best that I should die and end it all,” she replied, in a hard, strained voice.

“Don’t talk such nonsense!” he said impatiently. “You are young, graceful, smart, with one of the prettiest faces in London. And you would commit suicide. The thing is utterly absurd!”

“What have I to gain by living?” she inquired again, that question being apparently uppermost in her mind.

“You love young Chetwode. You may yet marry him.”

“No,” she answered with a sigh; “I fear that can never be. Happiness can never be mine—never.”

“Does he love you?” inquired the Major, with a note of sympathy in his voice.

“Love me? Why, of course he does.”

“You have never doubted him?”

“Never.”

“And he has asked you to marry him?”

“Yes, a dozen times.”

“When was the last occasion?”

“To-night—an hour ago.”

“And you, of course, refused?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because of the barrier which prevents my marriage with him.”

“And you will allow that to stand in the way of your safety?”

“My safety!” she echoed. “I don’t understand.”

“Cannot you see that if you married Cyril Chetwode at once, La Gioia would be powerless?”

“Ah!” she exclaimed suddenly, impressed by the suggestion. “I had never thought of that?”

“Well,” he went on, “if you take my advice, you’ll lose no time in becoming Chetwode’s wife. Then you can defy your enemies, and snap your fingers at La Gioia.”

A deep silence fell. The woman who was my wife was reflecting.

“You say that by marriage I could defy my enemies; but that is incorrect. I could not cut myself free of all of them.”

“Why? Whom would you fear?”

“You yourself,” she answered bluntly.

“You have no confidence in me,” he protested with a dissatisfied air.

“I can have no confidence in one who holds me enslaved as you do.”

“And yet I have come here at considerable risk and personal inconvenience to give you warning.”

“Because you fear discovery yourself.”

“No,” he laughed; “I’m quite safe. I merely came here to make two suggestions to you. One I have already made, namely, that you should marry Chetwode without delay. And the other—”

He paused, as though to accurately gauge the extent of his power over her.

“Well? Go on. I am all attention.”

“The other is that you should, as before, render me a trifling assistance in a little matter I have in hand which, if successfully carried out, will place both of us for ever beyond the reach of La Gioia’s vengeance.”

“Another scheme?” she cried wearily. “Well, what is it? Some further dastardly plot or other, no doubt. Explain it.”

“No; you are under a misapprehension,” he responded quickly. “The affair is no dastardly plot, but merely a little piece of ingenuity by which we may outwit La Gioia.”

“Outwit her!” she cried. “The very devil himself could not outwit La Gioia.”

“Ah!” he laughed; “you women are always so ready to jump to ill-formed conclusions. She has one weak point.”

“And you have discovered it?”

“Yes; I have discovered it.”

“How?”

“That is my affair. It is sufficient to be aware that she, the invincible, is nevertheless vulnerable.”

There was another pause; but at last the woman I loved responded in a firm, determined tone—

“Then, if that is true, I leave it to you. You declare you are my friend, therefore I can, at least, rely on you for protection, especially as we have so many interests in common.”

“But you must assist me,” he observed.

“No,” she answered, “I refuse to do that. You are quite capable of carrying out any villainy without my assistance.”

“Need we use the term villainy where La Gioia is concerned?” he asked. “You know her well enough to be aware that if she finds you she will be merciless, and will gloat over your downfall.”

“I would kill myself before she discovers me,” my wife declared.

“But you might not have time,” he suggested. “To die willingly demands considerable resolution. Women’s nerve usually fails them at the extreme moment.”

“Mine will not, you may rest assured of that,” she answered.

“You don’t seem capable of listening to reason to-night,” he protested.

“I am capable of listening to reason, but not to conspiracy,” she replied with some hauteur. “I know well what is passing in your mind. You would plot to take her life—to murder La Gioia!”

He laughed outright, as though there was something humorous in her words.

“No, no, my dear,” he answered quickly. “You quite misunderstood my intention.”

“I misunderstood your intention on a previous occasion,” she said meaningly.

“But in this affair our interests are entirely mutual,” he pointed out. “You must assist me.”

“I shall not.”

“But you must. We have everything to gain by securing her silence.”

“And everything to lose by meeting her.”

“But when we meet her it will be in defiance. I have thought out a plan.”

“Then carry it out,” she said. “I will have nothing whatever to do with it.”

“I may compel you,” he said, with slow distinctness. “You have already compelled me to act as your accomplice, but you have strained my bonds until they can resist no longer. I intend to break them.”

“That is indeed very interesting!” He laughed, treating her as though she were a spoilt child.

“Yes,” she cried furiously, “I will kill myself!”

“And leave me to make a scandalous explanation.”

“Then you would besmirch my good name after my death?” she said, turning upon him quickly. “Ah, yes! You show yourself in your true colours. You would even weave about me a web of infamy, so as to prevent me taking my life. I hate and detest you!”

“That’s not the first time you have informed me of that fact, my dear,” he responded, perfectly coolly.

“If it were not for you I should now be a happy girl. Thanks to you I am, however, one of the most wretched of all God’s creatures.”

“You need not be. You are petted in your own circle of friends, and your reputation remains unsullied.”

“I occupy a false position,” she declared. “What would Cyril say if he knew the truth?”

“A woman should never study the man who is to be her husband. It makes him far too conceited; and, moreover, she is sure to regret it in after-life.”

He was at times shrewdly philosophical, this scoundrel who held my wife beneath his thrall.

“I have you—only you—to thank for my present position. Believed by the world to be an honest, innocent girl, and accepted as such, I nevertheless fear from hour to hour that the truth may be revealed, and that I may find myself in the hands of the police. Death is preferable to this constant, all-consuming dread.”

“The unreasonableness and pertinacity of woman is extraordinary!” he exclaimed in a tone of impatience.

“What good can possibly result from this duel between us? Why not let us unite in defeating La Gioia?”

“That I refuse to do.”

“But our position is serious—most serious,” he pointed out. “Suppose that she discovers you!”

“Well, what then?”

“You must be entirely at her mercy,” he said in a deep voice. “And you know the fiendishness of her vengeance.”

“I know,” she responded in a voice scarcely above at whisper, the voice of a woman driven to desperation.

“But you must arm yourself against her,” he urged.

“Together we are strong enough to defeat any attack that she may make.”

“Tell me plainly,” she asked, dropping her voice until it was scarcely above a whisper, “do you, yourself, fear her?”

“Yes. She is the only person who, besides ourselves, knows the truth,” he responded in a low tone.

“And you would set a trap into which she will fall?” she went on, still in a whisper. “Come, do not let us prevaricate longer. You intend to kill her?”

There was dead silence. At last her companion spoke.

“Well,” he answered, “and if your surmise is correct?”

“Then, once and for all,” she said, raising her voice, “I tell you I’ll have no hand whatsoever in it?”

He was apparently taken aback by the suddenness of her decision.

“And you prefer to be left unprotected against the vengeance of La Gioia!” he said harshly.

“Yes, I do,” she said determinedly. “And recollect that from to-night I refuse to be further associated with these vile schemes of yours. You deceived me once; you shall never do so again!”

He laughed aloud.

“And you think you can break from me as easily as this. Your action to-night is foolish—suicidal. You will repent it.”

“I shall never repent. My hatred of you is too strong!”

“We shall see,” he laughed.

“Let me pass!” she cried, and leaving him, walked quickly down the path, and in a few moments the flutter of her light dress was lost in the darkness.

Her companion hurried after her.

I emerged quickly from my hiding-place, and followed them as far as the stile. He had overtaken her, and was striding by her side, bending and talking earnestly as they crossed the open grassland.

To follow sufficiently close to overhear what he said was impossible without detection, therefore I was compelled to remain and watch the receding figures until they became swallowed up in the darkness. Then, turning, I passed through the belt of wood again, and, scaling a wall, gained the high-road, which, after a walk of half an hour, took me back to Hounslow.

That night I slept but little. The discovery I had made was extraordinary! Who was this woman with the strange name? “La Gioia” meant in Italian “The Jewel,” or “The Joy.” Why did they fear her vengeance?

In the morning, as I descended to breakfast, the landlord of the inn, standing in his shirt-sleeves, met me at the foot of the stairs.

“Have you heard the terrible news, sir?” he inquired.

“No,” I said in surprise. “What news?”

“There was murder committed last night over in Whitton Park!”

“Murder?” I gasped. “Who has been murdered?”

Chapter Thirteen.

I Practise a New Profession.

“Why, the Colonel—Colonel Chetwode!” the man answered excitedly.

“Colonel Chetwode!” I gasped. “Impossible!”

“It’s a fact,” he declared. “The whole thing’s a deep mystery. They found him at five o’clock this morning.”

“Tell me all about it,” I urged.

“Mr Plummer, sergeant of police, was in here half an hour ago, and he told me all about it. According to what he says, it seems that a workman going across the park to Twickenham early this morning, saw the body of a man on the edge of the lake, half in the water. He rushed forward, and to his horror found it was the Colonel, quite dead.”

“Drowned?”

“No; he wasn’t drowned. That’s the curious part of it. He was murdered.”

“How?”

“By a blow on the head, the police believe. Plummer says that there are lots of marks near the edge of the lake as though a struggle took place.”

“Extraordinary!” I ejaculated. “You say he was quite dead when discovered. Was a doctor called?”

“Yes; the police surgeon, Doctor Douglas. He declared that the poor Colonel had been murdered, and had been dead several hours.”

“Is there no suspicion of the assassin?” I inquired, as the thought of the man whom I had watched in the Park dashed through my brain.

“None whatever,” he answered. “The Colonel was very popular everywhere, and was always good to the poor. It’s his wife who isn’t liked; she’s a rum un’, they say.”

“Where was the body found?” I inquired, when I had seated myself at the table while he had taken up a position before the empty fireplace to continue gossiping.

“Ah!” he said, “you wouldn’t, of course, know the spot, for you’ve never been in the park. There’s a path which leads across the grass at the back of the house through some thickets, and, skirting the lake, crosses the brook by a little bridge. It was just by that bridge that the poor fellow was found. They think that just as he had crossed the bridge he was struck down, and then fell backwards into the lake.”

“Ah! I understand,” I said. “Let’s hope that the detectives will discover something when they arrive. It was evidently a most dastardly bit of work.”

The man’s remark that I had no knowledge of the spot where the body was found aroused me to a sense of my own position. If it were known that I had entered the park that night, might not a serious suspicion fall upon me?

I recollected how, as I had crossed the bridge, I had heard distinctly a short cough. The murderer was, without doubt, lurking there when I had passed.

“Every one is talking of it. Lots of people are going down to see the spot. I shall go down presently. Do you care to come?” the landlord asked.

I acceded willingly, for I wished to see the place in daylight, and, as one of a crowd of sightseers, I should escape observation.

While I ate my breakfast, the man, full of the mystery, continued discussing it in all its phases. I allowed him to run on, for every word he spoke was, to me, of intense interest.

“The poor Colonel was the very last man to have an enemy who would take his life,” he said.

“But his second wife?”

“Ah!” he said with a knowing air, “he was never quite the same after he married again. They say that she flirted indiscriminately with every man she came across, no matter who he was.”

“As bad as that—eh?”

“Of course I don’t know for certain. I only tell you what I’ve ’eard.”

“Of course, of course,” I said. “People will always talk. But do you really think it’s true that she is as giddy as reported?”

“I really don’t know,” he responded, raising his eyebrows. “These women of the upper ten are a queer lot sometimes.”

“Well, the Colonel’s death is a very mysterious affair, at any rate,” I observed.

“Very,” he said. “And one or two evil-tongued people are already suggesting that she might have had a hand in it.”

“That is cruel,” I answered. “She may be unpopular, but that’s no reason why she should be a murderess. I suppose they base their suspicions upon the quarrel of which you told me yesterday.”

“I suppose so. The first Mrs Chetwode was a born lady, but of this woman nobody ever knew anything of who or what she was before he was so misguided as to marry her.”

“Perhaps the police inquiries will throw some light upon that,” I remarked.

“Let’s hope so,” he responded. And then, having finished my breakfast, we went together to the park.

Fortunately, on the previous night, I had been able to slip out and in unobserved, for the landlord had been absent with his wife at a neighbour’s, and was therefore not aware of a fact which might prove damning against me—namely, that I had disguised myself in a suit of secondhand clothes.

The tragedy had been enacted at the bridge I had crossed. I had passed over that very spot, and had actually heard the sound of the assassin’s cough.

Was that a signal to an accomplice? It seemed very much as though there had been two persons lying in wait for the Colonel, and I, having passed at the moment when they expected him, had narrowly escaped being struck down. That cough was possibly the signal that had saved me.

“Pass along, please! Pass along!” said a constable, as I stood staring in wonder at the spot where the body had been found half in the water among the waving reeds.

We receded for some distance, while the publican pointed out the geographical position of the spot with its relation to the house and the high-road.

“It’s a lonely place ’ere of a night,” he said. “Just the place where a man might commit a murder. Funny, however, that the Colonel was wandering about in the park alone!”

“Curious, too, that his presence was not missed by his wife, or any of the household.”

“Yes,” he said. “Very mysterious, indeed. He must have gone out unknown to any one, and, when the place was locked up for the night, it was believed he was indoors.”

“He was wearing evening dress,” I said.

“Oh, I believe so. But I’m not certain. I’ve not heard how he was dressed—I say, Harding,” he cried, turning to a bent old man who chanced to be passing, “how was the Colonel dressed when he was found?”

“In his cut-away coat and shirt,” was the reply. “They said that his shirt-stud was stolen.”

“Ah!” exclaimed my garrulous friend, the publican, “that looks as though it was done with a motive of robbery—don’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, my thoughts reverting again, as they constantly did, to that strange conversation which I had overheard in the darkness, the words of a man who had practically acknowledged himself to be an assassin.

When we again emerged upon the high-road I parted from my companion, he returning to Hounslow and I continuing my walk along the highway leading to Twickenham.

I wandered aimlessly, trying to form some resolution. Had any person seen me enter or leave the park on the previous night? If they had then my position was certainly one of peril, for, if arrested on suspicion, I should experience the utmost difficulty in clearing myself.

Where was Beryl? I called her Beryl, for that was the name by which I had first known her, and it appeared to me that her cousin had falsely introduced her to me as Feo. Had they both returned to London, or were they still at the Park?

At a point beyond Kneller Hall, just then within sight of Twickenham Town, I turned back, and, passing along the boundary of the park to Hounslow railway station, made inquiries of a friendly ticket collector, from whom I learnt that the two ladies had left, with several of the other guests for Waterloo half an hour before.

This information decided me. I went on into the town, and, entering the police-station, sought an interview with the inspector. It fortunately happened that Mr Rowling, the sub-divisional inspector from Brentford, a tall, rosy-faced, smart-looking man, was there, and he being the chief of that sub-district of the T Division, I gave him my card and placed myself at his disposal.

He had ridden over from Brentford in response to a telegram, and looked a veritable giant in his long police riding-boots and spurs. When I told him that I was a medical man who took a great interest in the detection of crime, and therefore wished to assist in the inquiries regarding the Colonel’s death, he looked at me curiously with his merry blue eyes, and again glanced at my card.

“Well, Doctor,” he said, “I’ve sent to Scotland Yard as well as to my superintendent at Hammersmith, and we are expecting three or four men from the Criminal Investigation Department to take up the case. They left by the 09:05 from Waterloo, and will arrive here in a few minutes, I hope.”

“But cannot you give me permission to assist them?”

“That, I fear, is beyond my power. The inquiries are, you see, left entirely to them.”

“But you are chief of this division of police. Surely you can give me permission?”

Before replying he made further inquiries as to who I was and where I lived.

While we were talking three men in plain clothes entered the office and saluted. Then, after briefly explaining the discovery to them, Rowling introduced me as an assistant.

The elder of the three, a thin-faced, dark-haired man, who was an inspector—Bullen by name—while his companions were sergeants, seemed greatly surprised at my application.

“It’s quite irregular, you know,” he said briefly.

“But I think, under the circumstances,” said Rowling, “that the Doctor might be of some service. He has had previous experience in murder cases, and has just applied to me. Of course I referred him to you, as you are to direct the inquiry.”

“The difficulty is that any little indiscretion on his part might upset our plans,” responded the detective.

“I will give you my word of honour to preserve secrecy in everything, and likewise to obey your orders as though I were a subordinate,” I said eagerly.

“Very well,” he replied at last, but not without some reluctance. “Of course, you are not attached to the inquiry officially, but I will give you permission to act with us.”

I thanked him, declaring my intention to use every discretion; and then Rowling gave them a brief description of the character of the man who had discovered the body, and handed them a written report made by the police surgeon, Doctor Douglas, who had been called to examine the body.

“There are no suspicions against any one?” inquired Bullen, after he had read the medical statement aloud to his two companions.

“None,” answered Rowling. “The boundary of the Park is patrolled, but the man on duty last night declares that he saw nobody of whom he could entertain, any suspicion.”

Then, going to the wall, he pointed out on the ordnance map the position of the park and mansion. This having been examined carefully by all three, Rowling gave them a brief description of the murdered man, his wife and his son, very similar to that given by my gossiping friend of the Red Lion.

“There were a lot of visitors at the Park, you say,” Bullen observed. “Are they still there?”

“No. Most of them have returned to London, I believe,” I responded.

“Ah!” said the detective, in a tone of disappointment; “it would have assisted us greatly if we could have seen what kind of persons they were. But we’d better go down to the house and have a look round.”

Chapter Fourteen.

A Theory.

Half an hour later I stood beside the body of Colonel Chetwode, making a thorough and complete examination.

It was still clothed, just as it had been found, for the local police had given orders that it should not be touched before the arrival of the detectives from headquarters.

The body was that of a tall, thin man, with aquiline, refined features, about sixty or so, with iron-grey hair and moustache, and a brow lined by care and anxiety. His evening clothes, wet and muddy, in the broad light of day gave the corpse a disreputable, neglected appearance, which was rendered even more striking by his dishevelled hair and moustache matted with dried mud.

Bullen was alone with me, his companions being at the spot where the body was found, and as I proceeded to draw up the blind and examine the wound in the dead man’s scalp, the detective stood by in silence watching my examination.

The wound near the base of the skull was, I found to my surprise, quite a superficial one. By its appearance I saw that the police doctor had probed it and quickly found that the injury was not of such a nature as to have caused death.

“Well?” Bullen asked anxiously. “What do you make out of it. Doctor?”

“At present, I can only say that death was not caused by that wound,” I responded.

“Then how, in your opinion, was the crime committed? What, in your opinion, was the weapon used?” he asked.

“At present I am unable to say,” I responded. “The natural conclusion is that it was caused by a blow from a life-preserver, yet a round knob could never have inflicted such a wound. I incline to the opinion that the wound might have been caused by a fall from the bridge upon the rough stones below.”