"I have no knowledge yet of who the woman is," responded Hoefer, in
answer to my question. "I only know that her name is La Gioia. But you
are aware of her identity, it seems."
"No; like yourself, I only know her name."
He glanced at me rather curiously through his big spectacles, and I knew
that he doubted my words. I pressed him to explain by what means he had
made the discovery, but his answers were ambiguous. In brief, he
believed that I knew more than I really did, and therefore declined to
tell me anything. He was extremely eccentric, this queer old dabbler in
the occult, and I well knew that, having once adopted a plan in the
pursuit of an inquiry, no power on earth would induce him to deviate
from it.
Fully an hour I remained in that atmosphere full of poisonous fumes,
watching a further but futile analysis that he made, and afterwards took
my leave of him.
I went back to Bayswater, wrote a letter of resignation to the doctor
who had employed me, and then went forth again upon my round of visits.
The practice was large and scattered, and several cases were critical
ones, therefore it was not until nearly eight o'clock that I returned
again, fagged and hungry, only to find the waiting-room filled with club
patients and others.
The irregularity of meals is one of the chief discomforts of a busy
doctor's life. I snatched a few moments to swallow my soup, and then
entered the surgery and sat there until past nine ere I could commence
dinner.
Then, over my coffee and a pipe, I sat at ease, thinking over the many
occurrences of the day. Truly it had been an eventful one--the
turning-point of my life. I had telegraphed to my mother, telling her
of my good fortune, and, in response, received her hearty
congratulations. One of the chief gratifications which the thousand
pounds had brought to me was the fact that, for a year or so, she would
not feel the absolute pinch of poverty as she had done through so long
past.
And I was invited to Atworth! I should there have an opportunity of
being always at the side of the woman I loved so madly, and perhaps be
enabled to penetrate the veil of mystery with which she was surrounded.
I was suspicious of the baronet's wife--suspicious because she had made
her first call upon me under such curious circumstances. How did she
know me? and for what reason had she sought my acquaintance?
She had endeavoured to flirt with me. Faugh! Her beauty, her
smartness, and her clever woman's wiles might have turned the heads of
the majority of men. But I loved Beryl, and she was mine--mine!
Reader, I have taken you entirely into my confidence, and I am laying
bare to you my secret. Need I tell you how maddening the enigma had now
become, how near I always seemed to some solution and yet how far off
the truth? Place yourself in my position for a single moment--adoring
the woman who, although she was actually my wife, was yet ignorant of
the fact; and I dare not tell her the truth lest she might hold me in
suspicion as one of those who had conspired against her. So far from
the problem being, solved, each day rendered it more intricate and more
inscrutable, until the continual weight upon my mind drove me to
despair. Hence my anxiety for the days to pass in order that I might
journey down to Atworth.
At last, on a close, overcast afternoon in the middle of September, when
the hot sun seemed unable to penetrate the heavy veil of London smoke
and the air was suffocating, I left Paddington, and, in due course,
found myself upon the platform of the wayside station of Corsham, close
to the entrance to the Box tunnel, where Sir Henry and his wife awaited
me. The former was a tall, smart-looking, elderly man with grey hair
and a well-trimmed grey beard, who, on our introduction, greeted me most
cordially, expressing a hope that I should have "a good time" with them.
I liked him at once; his face was open and honest, and his hand-grip
was sincere.
We mounted the smart dogcart, and, leaving my baggage to the servant,
drove out into the high-road which ran over the hills, looming purple in
the golden sunset haze, to Trowbridge. Five miles through that
picturesque, romantic district--one of the fairest in England--skirting
the Monk's Park, crossing the old Roman Road between Bath and London,
and having ascended the ridge of the steep known as Corsham Side, we
descended again through the little old-fashioned village of Atworth by a
road which brought us, at last, to the lodge of the Hall. Then,
entering the drive, we drove up to the fine old Tudor mansion, low and
comfortable looking, with its long _facade_ almost overgrown with ivy.
One of "the stately homes of England," it stood commanding a view of the
whole range of the Wiltshire hills, the trees and park now bathed in the
violets of the afterglow.
From the great hall the guests came forth to meet us in old English
welcome, and, as I descended, Beryl herself, fresh in a pink cotton
blouse and short cycling skirt, was the first to take my hand.
"At last, Doctor Colkirk!" she cried. "We're all awfully delighted to
see you."
Our eyes met, and I saw in hers a look of genuine welcome.
"You are very kind," I answered. "The pleasure is, I assure you, quite
mutual."
Then my host introduced me to all the others.
The house, built in the form of a square, with a large courtyard in the
centre, was much larger than it appeared from the exterior. The hall,
filled as it was with curios and trophies of the chase--for the baronet
was a keen sportsman, and his wife, too, was an excellent shot--formed a
comfortable lounge. My host and hostess had travelled widely in India
and the East, and most of the Atworth collection had been acquired
during their visits to the Colonies. The room assigned to me was a
bright pleasant one, clean, with old-fashioned chintzes, while from the
deep window I could see across the lawn and the deep glen beyond, away
over the winding Avon to the darkening hills.
At dinner I was placed next my hostess, with Beryl on my left. The
latter wore a striking gown of turquoise blue, which, cut low at the
neck, suited her admirably. Her wonderful gold-brown hair had evidently
been arranged by a practised maid; but, as I turned to her, before she
seated herself, I saw, at her throat, an object which caused me to start
in surprise; suspended by a thin gold chain around her neck, a small
ornament in diamonds, an exact replica of that curious little charm,
shaped like a note of interrogation, which I had taken from her on the
fateful day of our marriage, which I wore around my own neck at the
moment. As I looked it sparkled and flashed with a thousand brilliant
fires. Could that strange little device convey any hidden meaning? It
was curious that, having lost one, she should wear another exactly
similar.
We sat down together chatting merrily. The baronet's wife was in black
lace, her white throat and arms gleaming through the transparency, while
her corsage was relieved by crimson carnations. Around the table, too,
were several other striking dresses, for the majority of the guests were
young, and the house-party was a decidedly smart one. The meal, too,
was served with a stateliness which characterised everything in the
household of the Pierrepoint-Lanes.
I watched my love carefully, and saw, by her slightly flushed cheeks,
that my arrival gave her the utmost satisfaction.
It was in the drawing-room afterwards, when we were sitting together,
that I inquired if she had entirely recovered.
"Oh, entirely," she replied. "It was extraordinary, was it not? Do you
know whether Doctor Hoefer has visited the house again?"
"I don't know," I responded. "He's so very secret in all his doings.
He will tell me nothing--save one thing."
"One thing--what is that?"
"He has discovered the identity of your visitor in black."
"He has?" she cried quickly. "Who was she?"
"A woman whom he called by a curious foreign name," I said, watching
Beryl's face the while. "I think he said she was known amongst her
intimates as La Gioia."
The light died in an instant from her face.
"La Gioia!" she gasped. "And he knows her?"
"I presume that, as a result of his inquiries, he has made this
discovery. His shrewdness is something marvellous; he has succeeded in
many cases where the cleverest detectives have utterly failed."
"But how can he have found her?" she went on, greatly agitated by my
statement.
"I have no idea. I only tell you this just as he made the announcement
to me--without any explanation."
She was silent, her eyes downcast. The ornament at her throat caught
the light and glittered. My words had utterly upset her.
"I must tell Nora," she said briefly, at last.
"But I presume that you know this person called La Gioia?" I remarked.
"Know her?" she gasped, looking up at me quickly. "Know her? How
should I know her?"
"Because she visited you as a messenger from the friend whose name you
refused to tell me."
"I did not know it was her?" she declared wildly. "I cannot think that
it was actually that woman."
"You have, then, a reason for wishing not to meet her?"
"I have never met her," she declared in a hard voice. "I do not believe
she was actually that woman?"
"I have merely told you Hoefer's statement," I answered. "I know
nothing of who or what she is; the name sounds as though she were an
actress."
"Did he tell you anything else?" she demanded. "Not another word beyond
what you have already said?"
"He only told me that he had discovered her identity."
"He has not found out her motive in visiting me?" she cried quickly.
"Not yet--as far as I am aware."
She breathed more freely. That she desired to preserve the secret of
this woman, whom she feared, was plain, but for what reason it was
impossible to guess. Indeed, from her attitude, it seemed very much as
though she were actually aware that her visitor and La Gioia were one
and the same person. I saw by the twitching of her lips that she was
nervous, and knew that she now regretted allowing Hoefer to prosecute
his inquiries into the curious phenomena.
As I sat there with her, feasting my eyes upon her peerless beauty, I
thought it all over, and arrived at the conclusion that, to discover the
truth, I must remain patient and watchful, and never for a single
instant show "my hand."
I was suspicious of the baronet's wife, and regarded her rather as an
enemy than as a friend. She had forced herself upon me with some
ulterior motive, which, although not yet apparent, would, I felt
confident, be some day revealed.
Fortunately, at that moment, a smart woman in a cream gown went to the
piano and began to play the overture from Adams' _Poupee de Nuremburg_,
rendering silence imperative. And afterwards, at my suggestion, my wife
and I strolled along to the billiard-room, where we joined a party
playing pool. She handled her cue quite cleverly, for a woman, and was
frequently applauded for her strokes.
Of the agitation caused by my words not a single trace now remained.
She was as gay, merry, and reckless as the others; indeed, she struck me
as the very soul of the whole party. There was a smartness about her,
without that annoying air of mannishness, which has, alas! developed
among girls nowadays, and all that she did was full of that graceful
sweetness so typically English.
The billiard-room echoed with laughter, again and again, for the game
proved an exciting one, and the men of the party were, of course,
gallant to the ladies in their play. There was a careless freedom in it
all that was most enjoyable. The baronet was altogether an excellent
fellow, eager to amuse everybody. What, I wondered, would he say if he
knew of the vagaries of his smart wife, namely, that instead of visiting
her relatives, she had run up to London for some purpose unknown? One
fact was plain to me before I had been an hour in his house: he allowed
her absolute and complete liberty.
We chatted together, sipping our whiskies between our turns at the game,
and I found him a true type of the courteous, easy-going English
gentlemen. I cannot, even to-day, tell what had prejudiced me against
his wife, but somehow I did not like her. My distrust was a vague,
undefined one, and I could not account for it.
She was eager to entertain me, it was true, anxious for my comfort,
merry, full of smart sayings, and altogether a clever and tactful
hostess. Nevertheless, I could not get away from the distinct feeling
that I had been invited there with some ulterior motive.
The thought was a curious one, and it troubled me, not only that
evening, but far into the silent night, as I lay awake striving to form
some theory, but ever in vain.
Of one thing alone I felt absolutely assured--I am quick to distinguish
the smallest signs, and I had not failed to become impressed by the
truth I had read in her eyes that night--she was not sincere, she was
plotting against me. I knew it, and regretted that I had accepted her
invitation.