Bullen and his assistant, but nofresh discovery was made, for not the slightest clue presented itself.A verdict of "Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown" hadbeen returned, and the matter left in the hands of the police.
A week went past, but I could not decide whether it would be policy tocall at Gloucester Square and have an interview with Beryl and hercousin. I recollected that the Colonel's widow had not given theirnames to the police--a fact full of significance, for it appeared asthough she desired to conceal their visit to Whitton.
I longed to see my love to speak with her, to hold her hand and bask inthe sunshine of her smiles.
She had defied the man who had tempted her to revenge, she had declaredher intention of renouncing all the past. Ah, that past! If I couldonly glean something regarding it! If I could only stand by her as herchampion without arousing any suspicion within her.
This impulse to see her proved too strong. I could not resist it,therefore one day I went to Gloucester Square to make an afternoon call,but found the blinds down.
"Her ladyship is out of town, sir," the maid-servant answered inresponse to my inquiry.
"And Miss--Miss Ashwicke?" I said, quickly remembering that she hadbeen introduced to me by that name.
"Ashwicke," repeated the girl, puzzled. "There is no Miss Ashwicke inthe family, sir."
"Oh, of course," I said, rather lamely I fear; "it's my mistake. Imeant 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-facedgentleman 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 theshooting."
Other questions I put to her she answered frankly, and I left a coin inher hand as I turned and went down the steps. Why, I wondered, had herladyship thought fit to introduce Beryl to me as Feo Ashwicke?
In deep disappointment I returned to Rowan Road. Every effort I madeseemed 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 beganto 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 eveningand exchanged the watch which my mother had given me in my schoolboydays for two pounds and a ticket upon which was inscribed a false nameand address. Of this money only a few shillings remained, and I wasexisting upon my friend's charity.
While in this unsettled state of mind I was called out one morning tovisit a patient over in Brook Green, and on my return entered asaloon-bar opposite Hammersmith Station for a glass of that homely andinexpensive beverage vulgarly known as "bitter." Upon the counterbefore me the _London Post-office Directory_ lay open, and of a suddenit 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," andsuddenly, 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 medown at the corner of the Cromwell Road, and ten minutes later I stoodbefore the house which the directory indicated.
Instantly I saw that its exterior was identical--a large grey place witha great dark portico supported by four huge columns. It was the houseto which I had been called on the day the strange marriage had takenplace.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
THE VEILED LADY.
The neighbouring houses were mostly closed, their owners being out oftown for the summer; but the one before which I halted was apparentlyoccupied, 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 themistress 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'svery certain. I feel sure I haven't mistaken the house; I used to be avisitor 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-outfor a likely house to rob--I'm a doctor." And, to convince him, I tookoff my silk hat and displayed my stethoscope in the lining, as well asgiving him a card.
"Well," he answered, rather ill-manneredly, "I don't see why I shouldsatisfy you. You aren't a friend of Mrs Stentiford's?"
"No," I admitted; "but I only desire a glance at the library and at thebedrooms upstairs, just to satisfy my curiosity."
"Why?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, there occurred here, in this house, anincident which was the crisis of my life. For that reason I am full ofcuriosity to see the rooms again, and I ask you as a favour to allow meto 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 hadapparently been moved.
I looked into the dining-room--that same handsome apartment in whichchampagne had been drunk to my health and happiness. Bah! what amockery it had been!
We went into several of the other rooms after that, and all of themwere, I found, well furnished in a style rather out-of-date butnevertheless 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'slittle mistake about it. We doctors have our eyes open, you know."
He smiled, but was apparently surprised that I should have detected hiscalling.
"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 lether house furnished."
"I don't think so."
"What gives you that impression?"
"Because before she went away she told me that she preferred to closethe place and pay me, rather than to let her things be ruined bystrangers."
"And I suppose you've heard from neighbours about the house?"
"Yes," he replied; "I've heard that a gentleman lived here about fouryears ago--I think the name was Ashwicke."
"But he was living here a few weeks ago," I declared; "I visited himhere."
The retired police-sergeant looked at me incredibly.
"I think you must be mistaken. Mrs Stentiford was certainly occupyingthe 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 thematter a secret, for none of the neighbours are aware of it."
"Then you have already inquired?" I asked, somewhat surprised, for hespoke so positively.
"Yes," he replied. "Curiously enough, a few days ago I had some oneelse call and ask for
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