"I am aware of it by the same means that I know that Feo Ashwicke and
Beryl Wynd are one and the same person."
She started quickly.
"Who told you that?" she asked, with a strange flash in her eyes.
I smiled again, answering, "I think it would be best if you confided in
me in this matter, instead of leaving me to obtain the truth for myself.
Remember, you have called me here to save your cousin, and yet, by her
side, while her young life is slowly ebbing, we are engaged in a battle
of words. Now tell me," I urged, "how did this occur?"
She shook her head.
"Shall I begin?" I suggested. "Shall I say that you came up with Miss
Beryl from Atworth yesterday, quite unexpectedly, in order to keep an
appointment? That you--"
"How did you know?" she gasped again. "How did you know our movements?"
"I merely ask whether this is not the truth," I responded calmly. I had
noticed that the furniture in the room was undusted, and therefore knew
that they had returned to town unexpectedly. "Shall we advance a step
further? I think, if I am not mistaken, that there was a strong reason
for your return to town, and also for keeping your presence in London a
secret. That is the reason that you communicated with your friend."
"With whom?"
"With Mrs Chetwode."
The light died from her face. She swayed slightly, and I saw that she
gripped the edge of the little glass-topped table to steady herself.
Then her features relaxed into a sickly smile, and she managed to
stammer--
"You are awfully clever, Doctor, to be aware of all these things. Is it
clairvoyance--thought-reading, or what?"
"Those who have secrets should be careful not to betray them," I
responded ambiguously.
"Then if I have betrayed myself, perhaps you will tell me something more
of equal interest."
"No," I answered. "I have no desire to make any experiments. In this
matter your cousin's life is at stake. It will be, at least, humane of
you if you place me in possession of all the facts you know regarding
the dastardly attempt upon her."
"I tell you that I know nothing."
"Nothing beyond what?" I said very gravely.
Again she was silent. I watched the inanimate body of the woman I
loved, but saw no change. In what manner that state of coma had been
produced I knew not, and I was in deadly fear that the last breath would
leave the body before the arrival of Hoefer, the great German doctor
whose lectures at Guy's had first aroused within me a desire to become a
medico-legist. There was, I knew, but one man in all the world who
could diagnose those symptoms, and it was Hoefer. I only prayed that he
might not be out of town.
"Well," I went on, "it seems that you hesitate to tell me the truth,
because you fear that I might divulge your secret. Is that so?"
"I believed that I might trust you to attend my cousin, and preserve
silence regarding her illness and her presence in London," was the
haughty reply. "But it seems that you are endeavouring to ascertain
facts which are purely family affairs."
"The doctor is always the confidant of the family," I answered.
"But the other--the doctor who is coming?"
"He is an old friend and will promise to keep your secret," I said.
"Come, tell me."
She stood hesitating, erect, statuesque, her eyes fixed immovably upon
me.
"I know you are in trouble," I added in a tone of sympathy. "I am ready
to assist you, if you are open and straight forward with me. I have
already given you my pledge of secrecy. Now tell me what has occurred."
She wavered in her resolution to tell me nothing. My sympathetic tones
decided her, and she said in a low, hoarse voice--
"It is a mystery."
"In what way?"
"As you have already said, we left Atworth in order to keep an
appointment here. I was entertaining a house-party, but made an excuse
that one of my aunts in Cheltenham was dangerously ill. I left, and,
unknown to my husband or any other person, travelled with Beryl to
London."
I noted that she inadvertently used my love's proper name instead of
Feo, the name by which she had introduced us.
"The appointment was with Mrs Chetwode?" I suggested.
"Yes," she answered. "I had arranged to meet her to-day at two
o'clock."
"I have read in the newspapers, reports of the terrible tragedy at
Whitton. It was her husband who was murdered, was it not?"
"Yes," she answered in a tone rather unusual. Then she pursed her lips
and held her breath for a single instant. "She has been staying with
her sister in Taunton since the awful affair occurred, and came to town
purposely to meet me."
"I think, if I mistake not, both you and your cousin were at Whitton at
the time of the tragedy," I observed with affected carelessness.
"Oh no; fortunately we were not," she answered quickly. "We left the
day previously."
That certainly was not the truth--at least, Beryl had been there at four
o'clock in the afternoon. But I made no remark. It would not be policy
to tell this woman of my visit to Whitton and of all I had overheard and
seen.
"Well, and to-day? Did your friend Mrs Chetwode call?"
Again she hesitated, and that aroused within me a further suspicion.
"Yes," she replied. "She remained an hour, then left."
"Alone?"
"No; we went with her?"
"Where?"
"To visit a friend in Cadogan Place."
"And how long did you remain?"
"About half an hour."
"Cannot you tell me the name of this friend?"
"No," she answered; "it is of no account."
"Did you or your cousin eat or drink anything today, except here in your
own house?"
"Nothing. The person whom we visited offered us port wine, but neither
of us accepted."
"No tea?"
"None," she answered. "We afterwards returned home, arriving about five
o'clock, took tea here, and dined at half-past six. An hour later, just
as we had finished dinner, the servant handed Beryl a card; and she
rose, excusing herself on the plea that her dressmaker had called, and,
saying that she would return in a moment, left me alone to finish my
dessert. I waited for her return for fully twenty minutes, then went
across to the morning-room. The light had been switched off, and, when
I turned it on, I saw to my horror that she was lying full length on the
floor, apparently dead. We carried her here, and then I at once went in
search of you."
"And is that all you know?" I inquired rather incredulously.
"Everything," she assured me. "I found Beryl lying helpless and
insensible, just as she is now."
"And that was an hour and a half ago?" I remarked.
"Yes."
"But who was this caller? Surely you are able to ascertain that? The
servant asked the person in."
"It was a woman, and she asked for my cousin."
"Then you don't actually know that it was the dressmaker?"
"The servant can give no accurate description, except that she was
middle-aged, dressed in deep mourning, and wore a veil. She said she
was the dressmaker."
"Then the woman escaped from the house without being seen?"
"Yes," her ladyship replied. "No one heard a sound after poor Beryl
entered the room. What occurred there no one knows."
"We only know what occurred by the effects," I said. "A desperate
attempt was made upon her life. This is no mere fainting-fit."
"But who could this mysterious woman have been?" her ladyship exclaimed.
"It is absolutely astounding!" A thought flashed across my mind at
that moment. Could the visitor in black actually have been that dreaded
person of whom even Tattersett had spoken with bated breath--La Gioia?