"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 p.r.i.c.king 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 pa.s.sion.

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 eyegla.s.s 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.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

From my place of concealment I was able to watch the Major closely without risk of detection.

His presence there boded no good. He had crept slowly up the avenue until within sight of the house, and was intently scanning the gay party a.s.sembled on the lawn. Was it possible that he had walked behind me and watched me enter there?

He was scarcely as smart in appearance as on the day when he led my bride up the aisle of the church, and had afterwards handed me the cigarette; but, nevertheless, he retained the distinctly foppish air of the man-about-town. For a few moments only he remained there eagerly scanning the distant group, and then, as though rea.s.sured, he turned on his heel and retraced his steps towards the lodge.

Determined to watch his movements, I followed him until he gained Hounslow Station, and there I saw him turn into a low-built, old-fashioned inn, where I afterwards discovered he had been staying for a couple of days.

That some conspiracy was being formed, I could not doubt, therefore I set myself to keep strict watch upon him--no easy matter, for from hour to hour I feared that he might recognise me. It was he who had pet.i.tioned the Archbishop for the special licence for our marriage; he who had, with some mysterious motive, posed as the father of the woman I now loved. Surely she must have known that he was not her father, and, if so, she herself had taken a part in a plot which had so nearly cost her her life.

But was she not dead when I found her lying there? The puzzle was bewildering.

The Major's movements might possibly give me some clue. It was fortunate that we had met.

At a cheap clothier's I had purchased a rough secondhand suit and a bowler hat, much the worse for wear, and these I had a.s.sumed in order to alter my appearance as much as possible. About nine o'clock that same night, while I stood idling about the station with my eye ever upon the inn opposite, my vigilance was suddenly rewarded, for the Major emerged leisurely, carefully lit a cigar, and then strolled across the railway bridge and down the road towards Whitton. Darkness had not quite set in, therefore I hesitated to follow him; but, fortunately, I had explored the neighbourhood thoroughly during the past few hours, and knew that by crossing to the opposite platform of the station, I could gain a footpath which led through fields and market-gardens, emerging into the high-road almost opposite the gates of the park.

This byway I took, and, hurrying down it, arrived at the point near the lodge fully five minutes before he appeared along the road. The gates were, however, closed.