Chapter Ten. The Major.

On the following day I was seized by a burning desire to again see the woman whom I had so strangely grown to love. Time after time I discussed the matter with Bob, and he was full of my opinion that I might, by watching my wife’s movements, discover some fact which might give me a clue.

I proposed to Bob that I should go straight to her and make a full explanation, but he urged patience and diplomacy.

“Go down to Whitton and watch her at a distance, if you like,” he answered. “But be very careful that you are not recognised. No man cares to be spied upon. In this matter you must exercise the greatest discretion, if you really intend to get to the bottom of this puzzling affair.”

“I do intend to solve the enigma,” I declared. “If I’m ten years over it, I mean to claim Feo as my wife.”

“You can’t do that until you’ve obtained absolute proof.”

“And, in the meantime, Wynd and his accomplice may make another attempt upon her life,” I observed dubiously.

“Forewarned is forearmed,” he answered. “It seems your duty to act in secret as her protector.”

“Exactly. That’s my object in going down to Whitton. Somehow I feel sure that her life is insecure, for the facts plainly show that Wynd’s motive was to get rid of her.”

“Without a doubt. Go down to Hounslow to-morrow and discover what you can regarding these friends of hers, the Chetwodes, and their associates. In inquiries of this sort you must carefully work back.”

Now, I had for years rather prided myself upon my shrewdness. I had often set myself the task of clearing up those little unimportant mysteries of life which occur to every man; and more than once, while at the hospital, I had rendered service to the police in their inquiries.

That same afternoon, while Bob was out visiting his patients, I chanced to put my hand in the ticket-pocket of my frock-coat, and felt something there. The coat was the one I had worn when called out to become the husband of Feo Ashwicke, and from the pocket I drew a half-smoked cigarette.

I am not in the habit of placing cigarette ends in my pockets, and could not, at first, account for its presence there; but, on examination, I saw that it was the remains of one of an unusual brand, for upon the paper were tiny letters in Greek printed in blue ink. A second’s reflection, however, decided me: it was the cigarette which the Major had given me. It had gone out while I had been speaking, and with it in my hand I had rushed upstairs to my wife’s room, and instead of casting it away had, I suppose, thrust it into my pocket, where it had remained unheeded until that moment.

I examined it with the utmost care and great interest. Then I descended to Bob’s little dispensary, at the back of the house, and, finding a microscope, took out some of the tobacco and placed it beneath the lens. Tiny but distinct crystals were revealed clinging to the finely-cut tobacco, crystals of some subtle poison which, dissolved by the saliva while in the act of smoking, entered the system.

The cigarette had narrowly proved fatal to me.

At once I lit the spirit-lamp, cleaned and dried some test-tubes, and set busily to work to make solutions with the object of discovering the drug. But although I worked diligently the whole afternoon, and Bob, on returning, assisted me, we were unable to determine exactly what it was.

The remainder of the cigarette, including the paper bearing the mark of manufacture, I carefully preserved, and on the following morning went down to Hounslow to ascertain what I could regarding my unconscious wife. Bob remained at Rowan Road to look after his patients, but declared his intention of relieving me if any watching were required. Therefore, I went forth eager to ascertain some fact that would lead me to a knowledge of the truth.

Hounslow, although but a dozen miles from Charing Cross, was, I found, a dull, struggling place, the dismal quiet of which was only relieved by a few boisterous militiamen in its long street.

I took up my quarters at the historic Red Lion, and over a whisky-and-soda made inquiries of the plethoric landlord as to the whereabouts of Whitton. It lay beyond the town, half-way towards Twickenham, he told me.

“There’s a Whitton Park, isn’t there?” I inquired.

“Yes; Colonel Chetwode’s place. That’s just before you get to Whitton Church.”

“It’s a large house, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes; he’s the squire there, and magistrate, and all that.”

“I’ve heard his name,” I said, “but I’ve never seen him. What sort of a man is he?”

“Oh, a bit stand-offish, tall, thin, and grey-haired. We hotel-keepers don’t like ’im, because he’s always down on us on the licensing-days over at Brentford,” the man replied, chewing his cheap cigar.

“He’s married, isn’t he?”

“Yes; he married ’is second wife about three years ago. She’s a good-looking woman with reddish hair. They say she don’t get on very well with the Colonel’s grown-up son.”

“Oh,” I remarked, at once interested. “How old is the son?”

“About twenty-five. He’s a jolly fellow ’e is. He’s a lieutenant in the 7th Hussars, and they’re stationed here just now. He often comes in and gets a drink when e’ passes.”

“And he doesn’t hit it off well with his stepmother?”

“No; I’ve heard some queer stories about their quarrels from the servants,” he answered. He was a gossip, like all landlords of inns, and seemed extremely communicative because I had asked him to drink with me. The effect of a shilling spent upon drink is ofttimes amazing.

“Stepmothers are generally intruders,” I laughed. “Well, things came to such a pass down at the Park, a month or two ago, that Mrs Chetwode demanded that the Colonel should turn young Mr Cyril out of the house, and threatened that if he did not she would leave. The Colonel, so it’s said, grew furious, stormed down the place, and in the end Mrs Chetwode packed her trunks and went with Sherman, her maid, to Switzerland. About three weeks ago the Colonel followed her and brought her back, so I suppose they’ve made it up again.”

“Do they entertain many friends?”

“Oh yes, there’s always visitors there; it’s so near to London, you see.”

“Do you know the names of any of the visitors?” I inquired. Adding, “I think a friend of mine comes down to see them sometimes—a Sir Pierrepoint-Lane.”

“Oh yes,” he said; “I’ve seen both Sir Henry and his wife driving. They’ve got a place somewhere in Wiltshire, I’ve heard. They’re great friends of Mrs Chetwode’s.”

“And there’s a Miss Ashwicke who comes with them,” I said eagerly. “Do you know her?”

“I may know her by sight,” the man replied, “but I don’t know her by name.”

“She’s tall, blue-eyed, with golden-brown hair. Very pretty, and always very smartly dressed.”

“Yes; she wears a big black hat, and very often a drab-coloured dress. When she smiles she shows her teeth very prettily,” he said.

“That’s her, no doubt.”

“Well,” he said, “her description is exact. She’s Mr Cyril’s young lady.”

“What?” I cried, starting up in surprise.

“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 pricking 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 passion.

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 eyeglass 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.