Chapter Sixteen. The Veiled Lady.

The neighbouring houses were mostly closed, their owners being out of town for the summer; but the one before which I halted was apparently occupied, therefore I boldly ascended the steps and rang the bell.

My summons was answered by a burly, ill-dressed man in carpet slippers, who, when I inquired for Mr Ashwicke, responded—

“He don’t live here; this is Mrs Stentiford’s.”

“But he did live here,” I protested. “How long has he been gone?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only been here a fortnight, but I believe the mistress has lived here for three or four years.”

“Is your mistress in?”

“No; she’s away in Switzerland.”

“And you’re taking charge of the house?”

“That’s so.”

“Well,” I said, “Mr Ashwicke lived here until a short time ago, that’s very certain. I feel sure I haven’t mistaken the house; I used to be a visitor here. Would you mind me glancing at some of the rooms?”

He eyed me with distinct suspicion.

“No,” I laughed, “I’m not a swell mobsman, nor a burglar on the look-out for a likely house to rob—I’m a doctor.” And, to convince him, I took off my silk hat and displayed my stethoscope in the lining, as well as giving him a card.

“Well,” he answered, rather ill-manneredly, “I don’t see why I should satisfy you. You aren’t a friend of Mrs Stentiford’s?”

“No,” I admitted; “but I only desire a glance at the library and at the bedrooms upstairs, just to satisfy my curiosity.”

“Why?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, there occurred here, in this house, an incident which was the crisis of my life. For that reason I am full of curiosity to see the rooms again, and I ask you as a favour to allow me to do so.”

“Very well,” he said at last, after a moment’s hesitation, “come along. You say you want to see the library.” And I followed him down the hall, at the end of which he opened a door.

I went in and looked around. Yes; it was the same. Nothing had apparently been moved.

I looked into the dining-room—that same handsome apartment in which champagne had been drunk to my health and happiness. Bah! what a mockery it had been!

We went into several of the other rooms after that, and all of them were, I found, well furnished in a style rather out-of-date but nevertheless comfortable.

“And how long have you been in Mrs Stentiford’s service?” I inquired, as we descended the stairs.

“Just a fortnight.”

“You’re a police-officer, aren’t you?” I inquired.

“Yes—a sergeant,” he answered. “But how do you know?”

“Oh,” I answered, laughing, “when a man’s been in the police there’s little mistake about it. We doctors have our eyes open, you know.”

He smiled, but was apparently surprised that I should have detected his calling.

“There are none of the other servants here, I suppose?”

“No—none. Why?”

“Because I’m anxious to find out whether Mrs Stentiford has ever let her house furnished.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What gives you that impression?”

“Because before she went away she told me that she preferred to close the place and pay me, rather than to let her things be ruined by strangers.”

“And I suppose you’ve heard from neighbours about the house?”

“Yes,” he replied; “I’ve heard that a gentleman lived here about four years ago—I think the name was Ashwicke.”

“But he was living here a few weeks ago,” I declared; “I visited him here.”

The retired police-sergeant looked at me incredibly.

“I think you must be mistaken. Mrs Stentiford was certainly occupying the house then.”

“But you were not here?”

“No; I wasn’t here, that’s true.”

“She might have let it for a few weeks, during the London season—eh?”

“She certainly might,” he responded; “but, if she did, she kept the matter a secret, for none of the neighbours are aware of it.”

“Then you have already inquired?” I asked, somewhat surprised, for he spoke so positively.

“Yes,” he replied. “Curiously enough, a few days ago I had some one else call and ask for Mr Ashwicke.”

“Who was it?” I demanded quickly.

“A lady—a young, rather good-looking lady.”

“What was she like? Describe her to me.”

“Well, she wore a thick white veil so that I couldn’t see her face quite distinctly,” the man answered; “but she, like yourself, declared that she knew Mr Ashwicke, and had been a visitor here. She asked to see the very same rooms as you have seen. Very curious, isn’t it?”

“Very,” I exclaimed in wonder. “Did she give any further explanation?”

“No; she gave me half a sovereign instead,” he laughed.

“And she also declared that Mr Ashwicke had lived here recently?”

“Yes; that’s what caused me to inquire.”

“Very remarkable,” I said. “I wonder who she could have been. Can’t you give the slightest description of her?”

“I only noticed that she spoke in a soft, refined voice, and that she had very pretty eyes, blue-grey, I believe they were. But those thick white veils, with embroidery on them, make it very difficult to see a woman’s face clearly.”

“And her hair? Was she fair or dark?”

“Between colours.”

“Fair?”

“No; not fair, and not dark. Almost chestnut colour, I think it was.”

“Was she tall?”

“Middling. She came in a hansom, and it waited for her. She was evidently a lady.”

“She gave no name?”

“No; she was very discreet. And that’s what made me scent a mystery when you called and asked for the same person, and to see the same rooms.”

“Well, it is extraordinary,” I remarked. “Most extraordinary!”

I was sorry that I had no money to give him a tip, but my last half-crown reposed in the corner of my pocket, and I could not summon courage to leave myself penniless; so I merely thanked him, and, descending the steps, left him with disappointment plainly depicted upon his face.

The man might be useful, I felt, therefore I had decided to return at an early date, when my funds were not so low, and give him a similar tip to the one he had received from the veiled lady.

Who was she? I wondered. Surely it could not have been Beryl herself.

By good fortune, on my return to Rowan Road, I found a letter awaiting me, and on opening it discovered that it was from a doctor practising in Bayswater, who, in reply to my application a week before, appointed me his locum tenens. Therefore, on the following day, I thanked Bob warmly, for all his hospitality towards me, and bade him good-bye.

“Promise me one thing, Dick,” he said, as he stood in the hall, holding my hand in a firm, friendly grip of farewell.

“Well,” I asked, “what is it?”

“That you’ll try and forget all about this mystery of yours,” he said earnestly. “You’ll be getting brain fever, or something equally disagreeable, if you don’t try to control yourself and think no more of it. The experience is unusual, but, depend upon it, the mystery is so well-kept by the set of scoundrels into whose hands you fell, that you’ll never get to the bottom of it.”

“But I mean to solve it,” I said resolutely. “I’m married, my dear fellow, and—well, I love her.”

“I know. That’s just the devil of it,” he answered bluntly. “You’re gone on her, and the mystery makes you the more eager to claim her as your wife!”

“Exactly, old fellow,” I answered. “I know that you’re my best friend. Indeed, you have kept me out of the gutter or the common lodging-house these past weeks, and I am ready to repay you in any way in my power; but as to taking your advice in this matter, I really can’t.”

“Then, you’re a fool, Dick.”

“I may be,” I responded; “but I mean to clear up the mystery.”

“Because you are jealous of this young Chetwode.”

“I don’t deny that I’m jealous,” I replied with perfect frankness. “But I know that Beryl is in danger, and, as her husband, I should be at her side to protect her.”

“That’s all very well; but, after all your exertions, you’ve really discovered absolutely nothing.”

His words were, alas! only too true. I had made many discoveries, but each of them had only served to render the veil of mystery more impenetrable.

“But why do you urge me to give it up?”

“For your own sake,” he responded. “You can’t practise properly when your head is full of such a bewildering puzzle. Don’t you see that in this affair your reputation is at stake?”

“But her life is of greater moment to me than my own reputation,” I declared. “Let me have my own way, there’s a good chap.” And I wished him good-bye.

An hour later I became installed as temporary assistant to a surgeon in Richmond Road, Bayswater, who, having been “run down” by the unusual number of cases of influenza, had resolved to take a month’s vacation.

The Bayswater surgeon proved a genial fellow, but I saw little of him, for he left for North Wales with his family early next morning, after handing me his visiting-book and giving me general instructions. A fortnight went by, and so large was the practice—for I had to attend a number of the large drapery establishments in Westbourne Grove, where my principal was medical officer—that I had but little leisure. To forget the strange enigma which so troubled my brain I had thrown myself heartily into the work.

One hot, oppressive evening, after I had been in Richmond Road about three weeks, I was busy seeing the patients who, crowding the waiting-room between the hours of seven and nine, entered the consulting-room one by one to describe their physical ills, when the servant came in with a card, saying—

“A lady wishes to see you at once, sir.”

I took the card she handed me, and started with mingled surprise and satisfaction when I recognised the name—Lady Pierrepoint-Lane. At last she was in London again! But how, I wondered had she discovered my whereabouts. Quickly I went into the hall, and there found her with blanched face and in a state of great agitation.

“Ah, Doctor,” she gasped breathlessly, as I greeted her and our hands met, “I am so glad I’ve found you? I went to Hammersmith, but your friend, Doctor Raymond, told me you were here.”

“What is the matter?” I inquired, surprised at her eager manner. “Has anything occurred?”

“Yes, something most mysterious!” she answered hoarsely. “You are the only doctor whom I can trust. Will you come with me at once? I have a cab in waiting.”

“Where?” I inquired. “To your house?”

“Yes,” she urged. “Do not let us lose time. Apologise to your other patients here, and come at once. It’s a matter of life or death.”

“Of life or death?” I cried. “Who is ill?”

“It’s all a mystery,” she answered in the same breathless manner. “But you will keep it a secret—promise me.”

“I have many family secrets entrusted to me,” I answered. “Rest assured that I shall betray no confidence.”

“Then come quickly, and recollect that what you may see or hear to-night you must never divulge. On your word of honour as a gentleman.”

“I give you my word of honour,” I answered, wondering what fresh mystery was in store for me.

Then, turning, I asked a servant, who stood near, to tell the patients waiting for me that I had been unexpectedly called out to an urgent case, and would return in an hour.

“Good!” her ladyship exclaimed. “Let us not lose an instant.”

Instinctively I placed my instrument case in my pocket, and took down my hat.

“Tell me the nature of the illness,” I urged. “How did it occur? Who is the patient?”

“How it occurred nobody knows. It is a mystery, as I tell you. My cousin Feo, to whom I think I introduced you, is dying!”

“Dying!” I gasped, staring at her amazed. “Here in London?”

“Yes, at my house. I have called you because you are a doctor, and I can rely upon your secrecy.”