"And you would find her, and seek from her the truth?"
"Certainly."
She shut her lips tight and sat motionless, looking at me. Then at last she said, shuddering--
"No. Not that."
"Then you know this woman--or at least you guess her ident.i.ty," I said in a low voice.
She gazed at me with parted lips.
"I have already told you that I do not know her," was her firm response.
"Then what do you fear?" I demanded.
Again she was silent. Whatever potential complicity had lurked in her heart, my words brought her only immeasurable dismay.
"I dread such an action for your own sake," she faltered.
"Then I will remain till your cousin comes, and ask her what it is."
"Ask her?"
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
A SAVANT AT HOME.
"Why should I not ask your cousin?" I inquired earnestly. "I see by your manner that you are in sore need of a friend, and yet you will not allow me to act as such."
"Not allow you!" she echoed. "You are my friend. Were it not for you I should have died last night."
"Your recovery was due to Hoefer, not to myself," I declared.
I longed to speak to her of her visit to Whitton and of her relations with the Major, but dare not. By so doing I should only expose myself as an eavesdropper and a spy. Therefore, I was held to silence.
My thoughts wandered back to that fateful night when I was called to the house with the grey front in Queen"s-gate Gardens. That house, she had told me, was the home of "a friend." I remembered how, after our marriage, I had seen her lying there as one dead, and knew that she had fallen the victim of some foul and deep conspiracy. Who was that man who had called himself Wyndham Wynd? An a.s.sociate of the Major"s, who was careful in the concealment of his ident.i.ty. The manner in which the plot had been arranged was both amazing in its ingenuity and bewildering in its complications.
And lounging before me there in the low silken chair, her small mouth slightly parted, displaying an even set of pearly teeth, sat the victim--the woman who was unconsciously my wedded wife.
Her att.i.tude towards me was plainly one of fear lest I should discover her secret. It was evident that she now regretted having told me of that strange, dreamlike scene which was photographed so indelibly upon her memory, that incident so vivid that she vaguely believed she had been actually wedded.
"So you are returning to Atworth again?" I asked, for want of something better to say.
"I believe that is Nora"s intention," she responded quickly, with a slight sigh of relief at the change in our conversation.
"Have you many visitors there?"
"Oh, about fifteen--all rather jolly people. It"s such a charming place. Nora must ask you down there."
"I should be delighted," I said.
Now that I had money in my pocket, and was no longer compelled to toil for the bare necessities of life, I was eager to get away from the heat and dust of the London August. This suggestion of hers was to me doubly welcome too, for as a visitor at Atworth I should be always beside her.
That she was in peril was evident, and my place was near her.
On the other hand, however, I distrusted her ladyship. She had, at the first moment of our meeting, shown herself to be artificial and an admirable actress. Indeed, had she not, for purposes known best to herself, endeavoured to start a flirtation with me? Her character everywhere was that of a smart woman--popular in society, and noted for the success of her various entertainments during the season; but women of her stamp never commended themselves to me. Doctors, truth to tell, see rather too much of the reverse of the medal--especially in social London.
"When did you return from Wiltshire?" I inquired, determined to clear up one point.
"The day before yesterday," she responded.
"In the evening?"
"No, in the morning."
Then her ladyship had lied to me, for she had said they had arrived in London on the morning of the day when the unknown woman in black had called. Beryl had told the truth, and her words were proved by the statement of Bob Raymond that he had seen her pa.s.s along Rowan Road.
Were they acquaintances? As I reflected upon that problem one fact alone stood out above all others. If I had been unknown to Wynd and that scoundrel Tattersett, how was it that they were enabled to give every detail regarding myself in their application for the marriage licence? How, indeed, did they know that I was acting as Bob"s _loc.u.m tenens_? Or how was the Tempter so well aware of my penury?
No. Now that my friend had betrayed himself, I felt convinced that he knew something of the extraordinary plot in which I had become so hopelessly involved.
"The day before yesterday," I said, looking her straight in the face, "you came to Hammersmith to try to find me."
She started quickly, but in an instant recovered herself.
"Yes," she admitted. "I walked through Rowan Road, expecting to find your plate on one of the doors, but could not."
"I have no plate," I answered. "When I lived there I was a.s.sistant to my friend. Doctor Raymond."
"Raymond!" she exclaimed. "Oh yes, I remember I saw his name; but I was looking for yours."
"You wished to see me?"
"Yes; I was not well," she faltered.
"But your cousin knew that I had lived with Raymond. Did you not ask her?"
"No," she answered, "it never occurred to me to do so."
Rather a lame response, I thought.
"But last night she found me quite easily. She called upon Doctor Raymond, who gave her my new address." And, continuing, I told her of my temporary abode.
"I know," she replied.
"Have you ever met my friend Raymond?" I inquired with an air of affected carelessness.
"Not to my knowledge," she answered quite frankly.