of St. Ann’s, Wilton Place, between herself and Richard Dawes Colkirk, bachelor, Doctor of Medicine, of 114, Rowan Road, Hammersmith.” Besides, it was dated nearly a fortnight before – soon after I had accepted Raymond’s invitation to be his guest.
But my main object in making inquiries at the registry was to discover my wife’s address, and in this I was successful, for in the same document I found that she was described as “Beryl Grace Wynd, spinster, of 46, Earl’s-court Road, Kensington.”
I had, at least, gained knowledge of the house in which the tragedy had been enacted.
“When the young lady called to make this application, were you present?” I inquired eagerly.
“Yes. I saw her.”
“What was she like? Could you give me a description of her?”
“She was good-looking, elegantly dressed, and about middle height, if I remember aright.”
“And her hair?”
“It was of a colour rather unusual,” answered the man, peering at me through his spectacles. “A kind of golden-brown.”
The description was exact. Beryl had been there, and of her own accord applied for a licence to marry me. The mystery increased each moment.
“Was she alone?” I inquired.
“No. Her father was with her.”
“How did you know he was her father?”
“He introduced himself to me as such – Major Wynd.”
“Major Wynd!” I ejaculated. “But Mr Wynd is not an officer. What kind of man is he?”
“Of military appearance, round-faced, and good-humoured.”
“Old?”
“Certainly not – scarcely fifty. He wore a single eyeglass.”
The description did not answer to that of the Tempter, but rather to that of Tattersett. The truth seemed plain: the Major had posed as Beryl’s father, and had given his consent to the marriage.
The registry official, a little dry-as-dust individual who wore steel-rimmed spectacles poised far down his thin nose, endeavoured to learn who and what I was; but I merely replied that I was making inquiries on behalf of certain friends of the lady, and having satisfied myself by another glance at the signatures, I bade him good afternoon.
After a hasty lunch in a bar at the foot of Ludgate Hill, I set forth by the underground railway to Earl’s Court, and experienced but little difficulty in discovering Number 46. It stood on the right, between Park Terrace and Scarsdale Villas; but at a single glance I saw that it was not the house to which I had been conducted. The latter had been a big, substantial mansion with a spacious portico supported by four huge pillars, whereas this was a small, old-fashioned house of perhaps ten rooms.
Nevertheless, I walked up the garden path and rang the bell. My summons was answered by a neat maid, who called her mistress, an elderly lady, and the latter declared that she had lived there five years and had never heard the name of Wynd.
“Have you ever let your house furnished?” I inquired.
“Never,” She responded. “But the name is somewhat uncommon, and you ought to have no difficulty in finding the address.”
“I hope sincerely that I shall,” I answered, and, apologising for disturbing her, went down the steps, feeling that my mysterious wife had purposely given a false address in order to place any inquirer on a wrong scent.
Along to the corner of Kensington Road I strolled slowly, debating in my mind the best course to pursue. I turned into a public-house at the corner, and asked to see a London Directory, which I searched eagerly. But there was no such name as Wynd among the residents, neither could I find it among those of people living in the suburbs.
I called upon the Vicar of St. Ann’s, Wilton Place, and saw the register I had signed, but the officiating clergyman had been a friend of Wynd’s, and he did not know his address.
It seemed suspiciously as though the name of Wynd was an assumed one. If a false address had been given by the Major at Doctors’ Commons, then in all probability the surname was likewise false.
Fatigued, hungry, and dusty, I at last found myself once again in Rowan Road before the door of Bob Raymond’s house, and entered with my latch-key.
Old Mrs Bishop came forward excitedly to meet me.
“Oh, Doctor,” she cried, “wherever had you been all this week? I felt certain that something had happened to you, and yesterday I got my daughter to write a line to Dr Raymond. But I’m so glad you are back again sir. It’s given my daughter and me such a fright. We imagined all sorts of horrible things like those we read of in Lloyd’s and Reynolds’.”
“Well, I’m back again, Mrs Bishop,” I answered as carelessly as I could. “And I’m confoundedly hungry and tired. Get me a cup of tea and a chop, there’s a good woman.” And I ascended to Bob’s cosy little den from which I had been so suddenly called seven days before.
So Mrs Bishop had written to Bob, and no doubt he would be very surprised that I had disappeared and left the practice to take care of itself. He would certainly consider that my gratitude took a curious form. Therefore, I decided to send him a wire, telling him of my return and promising explanations later.
I cast myself wearily into the big leather armchair, and sat plunged in thought until the old housekeeper entered fussily with my tea.
“Well,” I asked, “I suppose there have been no new patients during my absence?”
“Oh, yes. One, sir.”
“Who was it?”
“A lady, sir. She came about noon on the second day of your absence, and said she wished to consult you. I told her that you’d been called out two days ago, and that you had not returned. She asked when you’d be in, and I said I didn’t know for certain. So she called again later, and seemed very disappointed and anxious. She came next day; but as you were still absent, she left her card. Here it is.” And Mrs Bishop took a card from the tray on a side-table and handed it to me. Upon it was the name, “Lady Pierrepoint-Lane.”
“Was she young or old?”
“Rather young, sir – not more than thirty, I think. She was dressed in deep mourning.”
“And you have seen nothing more of her?” I inquired interestedly. “There’s no address on the card.”
“She came again two days ago, and finding that you had not returned, left this note, telling me to give it to you on arrival.” And the woman fumbled behind the mirror on the mantelshelf and handed me a dainty note, the envelope of which bore a neat coat-of-arms.
The heading was “88, Gloucester Square, Hyde Park,” and the brief note ran —
“Lady Pierrepoint-Lane would esteem it a favour if Dr Colkirk could make it convenient to call upon her at his earliest opportunity.”
Curiosity prompted me to turn to Debrett’s Baronetage, in Raymond’s bookcase, and from it I discovered that her ladyship was the wife of Sir Henry
