In White Raiment

I longed to speak to her of her visit to Whitton and of her relations with the Major, but dare not. By so doing I should only expose myself as an eavesdropper and a spy. Therefore, I was held to silence.

My thoughts wandered back to that fateful night when I was called to the house with the grey front in Queen’s-gate Gardens. That house, she had told me, was the home of “a friend.” I remembered how, after our marriage, I had seen her lying there as one dead, and knew that she had fallen the victim of some foul and deep conspiracy. Who was that man who had called himself Wyndham Wynd? An associate of the Major’s, who was careful in the concealment of his identity. The manner in which the plot had been arranged was both amazing in its ingenuity and bewildering in its complications.

And lounging before me there in the low silken chair, her small mouth slightly parted, displaying an even set of pearly teeth, sat the victim – the woman who was unconsciously my wedded wife.

Her attitude towards me was plainly one of fear lest I should discover her secret. It was evident that she now regretted having told me of that strange, dreamlike scene which was photographed so indelibly upon her memory, that incident so vivid that she vaguely believed she had been actually wedded.

“So you are returning to Atworth again?” I asked, for want of something better to say.

“I believe that is Nora’s intention,” she responded quickly, with a slight sigh of relief at the change in our conversation.

“Have you many visitors there?”

“Oh, about fifteen – all rather jolly people. It’s such a charming place. Nora must ask you down there.”

“I should be delighted,” I said.

Now that I had money in my pocket, and was no longer compelled to toil for the bare necessities of life, I was eager to get away from the heat and dust of the London August. This suggestion of hers was to me doubly welcome too, for as a visitor at Atworth I should be always beside her. That she was in peril was evident, and my place was near her.

On the other hand, however, I distrusted her ladyship. She had, at the first moment of our meeting, shown herself to be artificial and an admirable actress. Indeed, had she not, for purposes known best to herself, endeavoured to start a flirtation with me? Her character everywhere was that of a smart woman – popular in society, and noted for the success of her various entertainments during the season; but women of her stamp never commended themselves to me. Doctors, truth to tell, see rather too much of the reverse of the medal – especially in social London.

“When did you return from Wiltshire?” I inquired, determined to clear up one point.

“The day before yesterday,” she responded.

“In the evening?”

“No, in the morning.”

Then her ladyship had lied to me, for she had said they had arrived in London on the morning of the day when the unknown woman in black had called. Beryl had told the truth, and her words were proved by the statement of Bob Raymond that he had seen her pass along Rowan Road.

Were they acquaintances? As I reflected upon that problem one fact alone stood out above all others. If I had been unknown to Wynd and that scoundrel Tattersett, how was it that they were enabled to give every detail regarding myself in their application for the marriage licence? How, indeed, did they know that I was acting as Bob’s locum tenens? Or how was the Tempter so well aware of my penury?

No. Now that my friend had betrayed himself, I felt convinced that he knew something of the extraordinary plot in which I had become so hopelessly involved.

“The day before yesterday,” I said, looking her straight in the face, “you came to Hammersmith to try to find me.”

She started quickly, but in an instant recovered herself.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I walked through Rowan Road, expecting to find your plate on one of the doors, but could not.”

“I have no plate,” I answered. “When I lived there I was assistant to my friend. Doctor Raymond.”

“Raymond!” she exclaimed. “Oh yes, I remember I saw his name; but I was looking for yours.”

“You wished to see me?”

“Yes; I was not well,” she faltered.

“But your cousin knew that I had lived with Raymond. Did you not ask her?”

“No,” she answered, “it never occurred to me to do so.”

Rather a lame response, I thought.

“But last night she found me quite easily. She called upon Doctor Raymond, who gave her my new address.” And, continuing, I told her of my temporary abode.

“I know,” she replied.

“Have you ever met my friend Raymond?” I inquired with an air of affected carelessness.

“Not to my knowledge,” she answered quite frankly.

“How long ago did Hoefer leave?” I asked.

“About an hour, I think. He has locked the door of the morning-room and taken the key with him,” she added, laughing.

She presented a pretty picture, indeed, in that half-darkened room, leaning back gracefully and smiling upon me.

“He announced no fresh discovery?”

“He spoke scarcely a dozen words.”

“But this mystery is a very disagreeable one for you who live here. I presume that you live with your cousin always?”

“Yes,” she responded. “After my father’s death, some years ago, I came here to live with her.”

So her father was dead! The Tempter was not, as I had all along suspected, her father.

I longed to take her in my arms and tell her the truth, that I was actually her husband and that I loved her. Yet, how could I? The mystery was so complicated, and so full of inscrutable points, that to make any such declaration must only fill her with fear of myself.

We chatted on while I feasted my eyes upon her wondrous beauty. Had she, I asked myself, ever seen young Chetwode since her return to London? Did she really love him, or was he merely the harmless but necessary admirer which every girl attracts towards herself as a sort of natural instinct? The thought of him caused a vivid recollection of that night in Whitton Park to arise within me.

Where was Tattersett – the man who had laughed at her when she had declared her intention of escaping him by suicide? Who was he? What was he?

It occurred to me, now that I had learned some potent facts from her own lips, that my next course should be to find this man and investigate his past. By doing so I might elucidate the problem.

Her ladyship, with a cry of welcome upon her lips, entered the room and sank, hot and fatigued, into a cosy armchair.

“London is simply unbearable!” she declared. “It’s ever so many degrees hotter than at Atworth, and in the Stores it is awfully stuffy. In the provision department butter, bacon, and things seem all melting away.”

“You’ll be glad to get back again to Wiltshire,” I laughed.

“Very. We shall go by the night-mail to-morrow,” she answered. “Why don’t you come up and visit us, Doctor? My husband would be charmed to meet you I’m sure.”

“That’s just what I’ve been saying, dear,” exclaimed Beryl. “Do persuade Doctor Colkirk to come.”

“I am sure you are both very kind,” I replied, “but at present I am in practice.”