In White Raiment

“Nearly lost my life?” she echoed. “I do not follow you.”

“The woman in black who called at Gloucester Square on that evening not so many days ago. You surely remember her? Was it not after her departure that her unaccountable, evil influence remained?”

“Certainly. But what of her?”

“You were with her last night.”

“With her?” she gasped, surprised. “I certainly was not.”

“Do you deny having seen her?” I demanded.

“Most assuredly,” she responded promptly. “You certainly did not see us together.”

“And your companion was not a woman?”

“No; it was a man.”

“Who?”

“I have already told you that I object to any one interfering in my private affairs.”

“A lover?” I said, with some asperity perhaps. “You are entirely at liberty to think what you please. I only deny that I have set eyes upon my mysterious visitor since that evening in Gloucester Square.”

“Well, she was in the house last night,” I answered decisively. “She was in your room.”

“In my room?” gasped my well-beloved, in alarm. “Impossible?”

“I watched her enter there,” I replied; and then continuing, gave her an exact account of all that transpired – how she had first entered my room, and how the strange evil of her presence had so strangely affected me afterwards.

“It’s absolutely astounding,” she declared. “I was utterly ignorant of it all. Are you absolutely certain that it was the same woman?”

“The description given of her by yourself and your cousin’s servant is exact. She came here with some distinctly sinister purpose, that is quite evident.”

“But she must have entered by the servants’ quarters if she passed through the hall as you have described. She seemed to have been in search of us both.”

“No doubt,” I answered. “And if, as you say, you were absent from the room at the time, it is evident that she went straight out into the park in search of you. In that case she would have left the room before I tried the door, and would be ignorant of the fact that I had detected her presence in the house.”

“But what could she want with us?” she asked in a voice which told me that this unexpected revelation had unnerved her.

“Ah, that I cannot tell,” I responded. “She came here with an evil purpose, and fortunately we were both absent from our rooms.”

She knit her brows in thought. Possibly she was recalling some event during her midnight walk.

“And you say that you actually experienced in your own room, on returning there, an exactly similar sensation to that which we all felt at Gloucester Square?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you know,” she faltered, “I felt the same sensation in my own room this morning – very faintly, but still the same feeling of being chilled. What is your private opinion about it, Doctor?”

“My opinion is that there is a conspiracy afoot against both of us,” I responded very earnestly. “For some unaccountable reason we are marked down as victims – why, I cannot tell. You will forgive me for speaking plainly, but I believe that you alone hold the key to the mystery, that you alone know the motive of this vengeance – if vengeance it be – and if you were to tell me frankly of the past we might unite to vanquish our enemies.”

“What do you mean by the past?” she inquired, with just a touch of indignation.

“There are several questions I have put to you which you have refused to answer,” I replied. “The light which you could throw upon two or three points, now in obscurity, might lead me to a knowledge of the whole truth.”

She sighed, as though the burden of her thoughts oppressed her.

“I have told you all I can,” she answered.

“No; you have told me all you dare. Is not that a more truthful way of putting it?”

She nodded, but made no response.

“You have feared to tell me of the one fact concerning yourself which has, in my belief, the greatest bearing upon your perilous situation.”

“And what is that?”

“The fact that you are married!”

Her face blanched to the lips, her hands trembled and for a moment my words held her dumb.

“Who told you that?” she gasped, in a low voice.

“I knew it long ago,” I replied.

“Nora has betrayed my secret,” she observed in a hard voice.

“No,” I declared; “your cousin has told me nothing. I have known the fact for months past.”

“For months past! How?”

“You are not frank with me,” I replied; “therefore I may be at liberty to preserve what secrets I think best.”

“I – I do not deny it,” she faltered. Then, in a voice trembling with emotion, she added, “Ah, Doctor Colkirk, if you knew all that I have suffered you would quite understand my fear lest any one should discover my secret. I often wonder how it is that I have not taken my own life long, long ago.”

“No,” I said in deep sympathy, taking her hand. “Bear up against all these troubles. Let me assist you as your friend.”

“But you cannot,” she declared despairingly, tears welling in her eyes. “You can only assist me by keeping my secret. Will you promise me to do that?”

“Most certainly,” I replied. “But I want to do more. I want to penetrate the veil of mystery which seems to surround your marriage. I want – ”

“You can never do that,” she interrupted quickly. “I have tried and tried, but have failed.”

“Why?”

“Because, strange though it may seem, I am entirely unaware of the identity of my husband. I have never seen him.”

I was silent. Should I reveal to her the truth? She could not believe me, if I did. What proof could I show her?