On Friday morning I entered the office of Messrs. Hanway Brothers in
Leadenhall Street, and after a short wait was accorded an interview with
the manager.
I demanded, of course, an explanation why I had been shipped away from
London in such a summary manner, whereupon he apparently regarded me as
a lunatic.
"I really had no knowledge of the affair," he replied, smiling
incredulously. "Do you actually allege you were taken on board the
_Petrel_ and kept imprisoned in a cabin by Captain Banfield? A most
extraordinary story, to say the least."
I told him of the inquiries made by the British Consul in Christiania,
and added--
"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.