I glanced quickly across at the speaker and held my breath in amazement.

It was Beryl! She was sitting there, in her usual place looking fresh in her pale blue cotton blouse, the merriest and happiest of the party.

What response I made I have no idea; I only know that I saluted my hostess mechanically and then walked to my chair like a man in a dream.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Personally, I am one of those who pay no tribute of grateful admiration to those who have oppressed mankind with the dubious blessings of the penny post. Just as no household, which is adorned with the presence of pen-propelling young ladies, is ever without its due quant.i.ty of morning letters, so no breakfast table is quite complete if the post-bag has been drawn blank. The urn may hiss, eggs may be boiled to the precise degree of solidity, frizzling strips of "home-cured" may smile upon you from dish of silver, or golden marmalade may strive to allure you with the richness of its hue, but if the morning letters are not present the picture is incomplete. They are the crowning glory of the British breakfast table.

For a good many days my correspondents had happily left me in the lurch, but as I sank into my seat I saw upon my plate a single letter, and took it up mechanically. As a rule the handwriting of the envelope betrayed the writer, but this possessed the additional attraction of unfamiliar penmanship. It had been addressed to Rowan Road, and Bob had forwarded it.

The communication was upon paper of pale straw-colour, headed "Metropolitan Police, T. Division, Brentford," and signed "J. Rowling, sub-divisional inspector." There were only two or three lines, asking whether I could make it convenient to appoint an hour when he could call upon me, as he wished to consult me upon "a matter of extreme importance." The matter referred to was, of course, the tragedy at Whitton. Truth to tell, I was sick at heart of all this ever-increasing maze of circ.u.mstances, and placed the letter in my pocket with a resolve to allow the affair to rest until I returned to London on the conclusion of my visit.

The receipt of it, however, had served one purpose admirably: it had given me an opportunity to recover my surprise at discovering Beryl sitting there opposite me, bright and vivacious, as though nothing unusual had occurred. The letter which I had seen her writing in the study on the previous evening had been, I now felt convinced, to make an appointment which she had kept.

But with whom?

I glanced at my hostess, who was busily arranging with those near her at table for a driving party to visit the Haywards at Dodington Park, and wondered whether she could be aware of the strange midnight visitant. I contrived to have a brief chat with her after breakfast was finished, but she appeared in entire ignorance of what had transpired during the night. I lit a cigarette, and as usual strolled around for a morning visit to the kennels with Sir Henry. On returning I saw my well-beloved seated beneath one of the great trees near the house, reading a novel.

The morning was hot, but in the shade it was delightful. As I crossed the gra.s.s to her she raised her head, and then, smiling gladly, exclaimed--

"Why, I thought you'd gone to Dodington with the others, Doctor Colkirk?"

"No," I answered, taking a chair near her; "I'm really very lazy this hot weather."

How charming she looked in her fresh cotton gown and large flop-hat of Leghorn straw trimmed with poppies.

"And I prefer quiet and an interesting book to driving in this sun. I wonder they didn't start about three, and come home in the sunset. But Nora's always so wilful."

Though as merry as was her wont, I detected a tired look in her eyes.

Where had she been during the long night--and with whom? The silence was only disturbed by the hum of the insects about us and the songs of the birds above. The morning was a perfect one.

"I found it very oppressive last night," I said, carefully approaching the subject upon which I wanted to talk to her. "I couldn't sleep, so I came out here into the park."

"Into the park?" she echoed quickly, and I saw by her look that she was apprehensive.

"Yes. It was a beautiful night--cool, refreshing, and starlit."

"You were alone?"

I hesitated. Then, looking her straight in the face, answered--

"No, I was not. I had yourself as company."

The colour in an instant left her cheeks.

"Me?" she gasped.

"Yes," I replied, in a low, earnest voice. "You were also in the park last night."

She was silent.

"I did not see you," she faltered. Then, as though recovering her self-possession, she added, with some hauteur, "And even if I chose to walk here after every one had gone to rest, I really don't think that you have any right to question my actions."

"Forgive me," I said quickly. "I do not question you in the least; I have no right to do so. You are certainly free to do as you please, save where you neglect your own interests or place yourself in peril--as you did last night."

"In peril of what?" she demanded defiantly.

"In peril of falling a victim to the vengeance of an enemy."

"I don't understand you."

"Then I will speak more frankly, Miss Wynd, in the hope that you will be equally frank with me," I said, my eyes fixed upon her. "You were last night, or, rather, at an early hour this morning, with a person whom you have met on a previous occasion."

"I admit that. It is, indeed, useless to deny it," she answered.

"And yet, on the last occasion that you met, you nearly lost your life!

Was it wise?"

"Nearly lost my life?" she echoed. "I do not follow you."

"The woman in black who called at Gloucester Square on that evening not so many days ago. You surely remember her? Was it not after her departure that her unaccountable, evil influence remained?"

"Certainly. But what of her?"

"You were with her last night."

"With her?" she gasped, surprised. "I certainly was not."

"Do you deny having seen her?" I demanded.

"Most a.s.suredly," she responded promptly. "You certainly did not see us together."

"And your companion was not a woman?"

"No; it was a man."

"Who?"

"I have already told you that I object to any one interfering in my private affairs."

"A lover?" I said, with some asperity perhaps. "You are entirely at liberty to think what you please. I only deny that I have set eyes upon my mysterious visitor since that evening in Gloucester Square."

"Well, she was in the house last night," I answered decisively. "She was in your room."

"In my room?" gasped my well-beloved, in alarm. "Impossible?"

"I watched her enter there," I replied; and then continuing, gave her an exact account of all that transpired--how she had first entered my room, and how the strange evil of her presence had so strangely affected me afterwards.