In White Raiment

“And Miss – Miss Ashwicke?” I said, quickly remembering that she had been introduced to me by that name.

“Ashwicke,” repeated the girl, puzzled. “There is no Miss Ashwicke in the family, sir.”

“Oh, of course,” I said, rather lamely I fear; “it’s my mistake. I meant Miss Wynd.”

“She’s with her ladyship in Wiltshire, sir.”

“At Atworth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did they leave?”

“Three days ago, sir. Sir Henry went with them.”

“Did a young gentleman named Chetwode accompany them?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“But you know Mr Chetwode, of course?” I said.

“Oh yes, sir. They say he is to marry Miss Beryl,” answered the girl, smiling.

“And his mother is a frequent visitor also, isn’t she.”

“Yes; she’s here very often indeed.”

“And Major Tattersett?”

“He’s only been here once, I think – a long time ago. He’s a round-faced gentleman who wears a single eyeglass, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Did he call to see Sir Henry?”

“No, sir. He came to see Miss Beryl.”

“And he has only been here once, you say?”

“Yes – only once, as far as I know.”

“I suppose you don’t expect the family back till the end of September – eh?”

“Oh, not before the middle of October. They’ll stay there through the shooting.”

Other questions I put to her she answered frankly, and I left a coin in her hand as I turned and went down the steps. Why, I wondered, had her ladyship thought fit to introduce Beryl to me as Feo Ashwicke?

In deep disappointment I returned to Rowan Road. Every effort I made seemed unavailing.

As the weeks passed in inactivity, and I was still Bob’s guest, assisting him among the few patients who rang the surgery bell, I began to feel that I must stir myself and find a fresh post as assistant. Rather than borrow off Bob, I had slid into a pawnbroker’s one evening and exchanged the watch which my mother had given me in my schoolboy days for two pounds and a ticket upon which was inscribed a false name and address. Of this money only a few shillings remained, and I was existing upon my friend’s charity.

While in this unsettled state of mind I was called out one morning to visit a patient over in Brook Green, and on my return entered a saloon-bar opposite Hammersmith Station for a glass of that homely and inexpensive beverage vulgarly known as “bitter.” Upon the counter before me the London Post-office Directory lay open, and of a sudden it occurred to me that I had never searched for the name of Ashwicke.

I turned over the pages curiously until I reached that headed “Ash,” and suddenly, half-way down, I came across the name I wanted: “Ashwicke, Alan Wynd, 94, Queen’s-gate Gardens, S.W.”

Without hesitation I went forth and mounted an omnibus, which set me down at the corner of the Cromwell Road, and ten minutes later I stood before the house which the directory indicated.

Instantly I saw that its exterior was identical – a large grey place with a great dark portico supported by four huge columns. It was the house to which I had been called on the day the strange marriage had taken place.

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!