Often I gave young Chetwode a pa.s.sing thought. I hated the prig, and thanked the Fates that he was not there. Sometimes his name was mentioned by one or other of the guests, and always in a manner that showed how her engagement to him was accepted by all her friends. Thus any mention of him caused me a sharp twinge.

During those warm, clear August days, spent with my love, I became somehow less suspicious of her ladyship's actions. Hers was a complex nature; but I could not fail to notice her extreme friendliness towards me, and more than once it struck me that she contrived to bring Beryl and myself together on every possible occasion. The motive puzzled me.

Little time, however, was afforded for rumination, save in the privacy of one's room at night. The round of gaiety was unceasing, and as one guest left another arrived, so that we always had some fresh diversion and merriment. It was open house to all. We men were told that no formalities would be permitted. The tantalus was ever open, the gla.s.ses ready, the soda in the ice, and the cigars of various brands placed invitingly in the smoking-room. Hence, every one made himself thoroughly at home, and helped himself, at any hour, to whatever he pleased.

The phantasmagoria of life is very curious. Only a fortnight before I was a penniless medico, feeling pulses and examining tongues in order to earn a shilling or two to keep the wolf from the door, yet, within eight days, I had entered into the possession of a thousand pounds, and was, moreover, the guest of one of the smartest hostesses in England.

I had been at Atworth about a fortnight, and had written twice to Hoefer, but, as yet, had received no response. He was a sorry correspondent, I knew, for when he wrote it was a painful effort with a quill.

Bob Raymond had written me one of those flippant notes characteristic of him; but to this I had not replied, for I could not rid myself of the belief that he had somehow played me false.

One evening, while sitting in the hall with my hostess, in the quiet hour that precedes the dressing-bell, she, of her own accord, began to chat about the curious phenomena in Gloucester Square.

"I have told my husband nothing," she said. "I do hope your friend will discover the cause before we return to town."

"If he does not, then it would be best to keep the door locked," I said.

"At present the affair is still unexplained."

"Fortunately Beryl is quite as well as ever--thanks to you and to him."

"It was a happy thought of yours to call me," I said. "Hoefer was the only man in London who could give her back her life, and, if ever the mystery is solved, it is he who will solve it."

I noticed that she was unusually pale, whether on account of the heat, or from mental agitation, I could not determine. The day had been a blazing one--so hot, indeed, that no one had been out before tea. At that moment every one had gone forth except ourselves, and, as she sat in a cane rocking-chair, swinging herself lazily to and fro, she looked little more than a girl, her cream serge tennis-dress imparting to her quite a juvenile appearance.

"I hope you are not bored here, Doctor," she said presently, after we had been talking for some time.

"Bored?" I laughed. "Why, one has not a moment in which to be bored.

This is the first half-hour of repose I've had since I arrived here."

She looked at me strangely, and, with a curious smile, said--

"Because you are always so taken up with Beryl."

"With Beryl!" I echoed, starting quickly. "I really did not know that--" I hastened to protest.

"Ah, no," she laughed, "To excuse yourself is useless. The truth is quite patent to me if not to the others."

"The truth of what?" I inquired, with affected ignorance.

"The truth that you love her."

I laughed aloud, scouting the idea. I did not intend to show my hand, for I was never certain of her tactics.

"My dear Doctor," she said presently, "you may deny it, if you like, but I have my eyes open, and I know that in your heart you love her."

"Then you know my feelings better than myself," I responded, inwardly angry that I should have acted in such a manner as to cause her to notice my infatuation.

"One's actions often betray one's heart. Yours have done," she replied.

"But I would warn you that love with Beryl is a dangerous game."

"Dangerous! I don't understand you."

"I mean that you must not love her. It is impossible."

"Why impossible?"

"For one simple and very good reason," she responded. Then, looking straight in my face, she added, "Could you, Doctor, keep a secret if I told you one?"

"I think I could. It would not be the first one I've kept."

"Well, it is for the sake of your own happiness that I tell you this,"

she said. "You will promise never to breathe a word to her if I tell you."

"I promise, of course."

She hesitated, with her dark eyes fixed upon mine. Then she said, in a low voice--

"Beryl is already married."

"To whom?" I asked, so calmly that I think I surprised her.

"To whom I cannot tell you."

"Why not? Surely it is no secret."

"Yes, it is a secret. That is why I dare not tell you her husband's name."

"Is she actually the wife of young Chetwode?"

"Certainly not."

"But she is engaged to him," I observed.

"She is believed to be," my hostess announced, "but such is not really the case."

"And her husband? Where is he?"

It was strange that I should be asking such a question about my own whereabouts.

"In London, I think."

"Then he is quite content that his wife should pose as the affianced bride of young Chetwode? Such an arrangement is certainly rather strange."

"I know nothing of the whys and wherefores," she replied. "I only know that she is already married, and I warn you not to lose your heart to her."

"Well, what you have told me is curious, but I think--"

The remainder of the sentence died upon my lips, for at that moment Beryl burst gaily into the hall, dusty and flushed after cycling, exclaiming--