"We are very good friends," she answered.

"But you love him? Why not admit it?" I said.

"And if I do--if I do, it is useless--all useless," she murmured.

"Yes," I observed, "it is useless. You are already married."

"No!" she cried, holding up her tiny hand as though to stay my words.

"Do not let us talk of it. I cannot bear to think. The truth hangs like a shadow over my life."

"Does Chetwode know?" I inquired. "Is he aware that you can never be his?"

"He knows nothing. He loves me, and believes that one day we shall many. Indeed, now that he has succeeded to the estate, he sees no reason why our marriage should be delayed, and is pressing me for an answer."

Her breast heaved and fell quickly beneath her starched blouse. I saw how agitated she was, and how, with difficulty, she was restraining her tears.

"What answer can you give him?"

"Ah!" she cried, "what answer, indeed. Was there ever woman before who knew not her husband, or who suffered as I am suffering?"

"Your case is absolutely unique," I said. "Have you not endeavoured to solve the problem? Surely, from the official record of the marriage, it is possible to obtain your husband's name? You have a wedding-ring, I suppose?" I said, my thoughts running back to that fateful moment when I had placed the golden bond of matrimony upon her hand.

"Yes," she answered, and, placing her hand within her bodice, drew forth the ring suspended by a narrow blue ribbon; "it is here."

I took it in my hand with a feeling of curiosity. How strange it was!

That was the very ring which I had placed upon her finger when in desperation I had sold myself to the Tempter.

"Have you no idea whatever of the circ.u.mstances of your marriage? Do you know nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing--save that I am actually married."

"The ident.i.ty of the man who placed this ring upon your hand is an enigma?"

"Yes. I found it upon my finger; that is all that I am aware of. I changed my name, yet I am ignorant of what my new name really is."

A sound of wheels approaching up the drive greeted our ears, but I still held the ring in the hollow of my hand.

"Shall I tell you the true name of your husband?" I said earnestly, looking straight into those deep, clear eyes.

"What?" she cried, starting in quick surprise; "you know it? Surely, that is impossible!"

"Yes," I said in a low voice; "I know it."

At that instant the ralli-car, which had evidently been to Corsham Station, dashed past us towards the house, interrupting our conversation and causing us both to raise our heads.

At the side of Barton, the coachman, there sat a stranger, who, as he pa.s.sed, turned his head aside to glance at us. Our eyes met. In an instant I recognised him. It was none other than the man for whom I had been in active search through all these weeks--the Tempter!

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE TEMPTER.

The small-eyed man, to whom I had sold myself that fateful day, caught sight of Beryl, and, raising his grey felt hat in recognition, pulled up, and swung himself down from the trap. I glanced at my love and saw that her face was blanched to the lips. The meeting was, to her, evidently a most unexpected one.

Beneath the seat I saw a well-worn kit-bag, and a gun-case, which showed that he had come on a visit. Smartly dressed in light grey, he wore a b.u.t.ton-hole of pink carnations, which gave him an air of gaiety and irresponsibility scarcely in keeping with his age.

"Ah, my dear Miss Wynd!" he cried, advancing to her with outstretched hand. "I'm so delighted to find you here. It is a long time since we met."

"Yes," she answered in a voice which trembled with suppressed excitement. "But I had no idea that you were coming down," she added.

"Nora told me nothing."

"I too had no idea of visiting you, until the day before yesterday," he said. "I've been abroad for nearly a year, and only arrived back in town three days ago, when I found Sir Henry's, invitation, a month old, lying at my club. I wired to ask if I might still accept it, and here I am."

He stood with his legs apart, his hat set rather jauntily upon his head, looking an entirely different person to that crabbed, strange old fellow who sat behind the bar of sunlight, with the bank-notes in his claw-like fingers, every detail of that scene was as vivid in my memory as though it had occurred but yesterday. Again, I looked into his face. Yes, I had no doubt whatever that it was he.

"I--I am the first to bid you welcome to Atworth," Beryl said. "Nora has gone over with some of the people to visit the Haywards, at Dodington. There's a flower-show there."

"I quite remember," he exclaimed, "I went over there last year. Lady Dyrham drove us. Do you recollect?"

"Of course," she laughed. "And how it rained too. My new frock was quite spoilt, and I had a bad cold for a fortnight afterwards. I'm not likely to easily forget that drive home."

"Because of the spoilt frock?" he laughed, raising his small eyes to me.

"Yes, I suppose that's what has impressed itself upon my memory. We women are never forgetful where clothes are concerned."

"And who's here? Anybody I know?" he inquired.

"Oh, there are the Pirries and the Tiremans, as usual, and, of course, Lady Dyrham," she answered. Then, a moment later she added, "This is Doctor Colkirk--Mr Ashwicke. Let me introduce you, if you have not already met before."

"We have not had that pleasure," said the Tempter, turning to me and raising his hat.

He remained perfectly calm, betraying no sign whatever of recognition.

In this I saw an intention on his part to deny all knowledge of our previous acquaintance.

His keen eyes glanced at me quickly, and, as though in that moment he gauged exactly my strength of character, he expressed his pleasure at our meeting, and hoped that we should all spend as pleasant a time as he had done last year.

"Here one has not an hour for leisure," he laughed. "Sir Henry and his wife are really a wonderful pair as host and hostess. You've already found them so, I've no doubt."

"Yes," I responded mechanically, his marvellous self-control staggering me. "The house-party is a very jolly one."

"I've been abroad," he went on. "But I'm pleased to be at home again.

There's nothing like an English country house in summer. It is an ideal existence."

"How long have you been away?" I inquired, anxious to ascertain his tactics.

"Nearly a year. After leaving here last summer, I spent a week in London and then left for Vienna. Afterwards I went south, spending greater part of the winter in Cairo, thence to Bombay, and returned for the late spring in Florence, and afterwards wandered about France, until three days ago I found myself again back in England."

"And you did not return once during the whole year?" I asked, with affected carelessness.

His small eyes darted quickly to mine, as though in suspicion.