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.