Justice is always vigilant—it stops not to weigh causes or motives, but overtakes the criminal, no matter whether his deeds be the suggestion of malice or the consequence of provoked revenge. I was all eagerness to face the pair in the full light and demand an explanation, yet I hesitated, fearing lest precipitation might prevent me gaining knowledge of the truth.
That they had no inclination to walk further was evident, for they still stood there in conversation, facing each other and speaking earnestly. I listened attentively to every word, my heart thumping so loudly that I wondered they did not hear its excited pulsations.
“You’ve seen nothing of Sir Bernard?” she was saying.
“Sir Bernard!” he echoed. “Why, of course not. To him I am dead and buried, just as I am to the rest of the world. My executors have proved my will at Somerset House, and very soon you will receive its benefits. To meet the old doctor would be to reveal the whole thing.”
“It is all so strange,” she said with a low sigh, “that sometimes, when I am alone, I can’t believeit to be true. We have deceived the world so completely.”
“Of course. That was my intention.”
“But could it not have been done without the sacrifice of that man’s life?” she queried. “Remember! The crime of murder was committed.”
“You are only dreaming!” he replied, in a hard voice. “A mystery was necessary for our success.”
“And it is a mystery which has entirely baffled the police in every particular.”
“As I intended it should. I laid my plans with care, so that there should be no hitch or point by which Scotland Yard could obtain a clue.”
“But our future life?” she murmured. “When may I return again to you? At present I am compelled to feign mourning, and present a perfect picture of interesting widowhood; but—but I hate this playing at death.”
“Have patience, dear,” he urged in a sympathetic tone. “For the moment we must remain entirely apart, holding no communication with each other save in secret, on the first and fifteenth day of every month as we arranged. As soon as I find myself in a position of safety we will disappear together, and you will leave the world wondering at the second mystery following upon the first.”
“In how long a time do you anticipate?” she asked, looking earnestly into his eyes.
“A few months at most,” was his answer. “If it were possible you should return to me at once; but you know how strange and romantic is my life,compelled to disguise my personality, and for ever moving from place to place, like the Wandering Jew. To return to me at present is quite impossible. Besides—you are in the hands of the executors; and before long must be in evidence in order to receive my money.”
“Money is useless to me without happiness,” she declared, in a voice of complaint. “My position at present is one of constant dread.”
“Whom and what do you fear?”
“I believe that Dr. Boyd has some vague suspicion of the truth,” she responded, after a pause.
“What?” he cried, in quick surprise. “Tell me why. Explain it all to me.”
“There is nothing to explain—save that to-night he seemed to regard my movements with suspicion.”
“Ah! my dear, your fears are utterly groundless,” he laughed. “What can the fellow possibly know? He is assured that I am dead, for he signed my certificate and followed me to my grave at Woking. A man who attends his friend’s funeral has no suspicion that the dead is still living, depend upon it. If there is any object in this world that is convincing it is a corpse.”
“I merely tell you the result of my observations,” she said. “In my opinion he has come here to learn what he can.”
“He can learn nothing,” answered the “dead” man. “If it were his confounded friend Jevons, now, we might have some apprehension; for the ingenuityof that man is, I’ve heard, absolutely astounding. Even Scotland Yard seeks his aid in the solving of the more difficult criminal problems.”
“I tell you plainly that I fear Ethelwynn may expose us,” his wife went on slowly, a distinctly anxious look upon her countenance. “As you know, there is a coolness between us, and rather than risk losing the doctor altogether she may make a clean breast of the affair.”
“No, no, my dear. Rest assured that she will never betray us,” answered Courtenay, with a light reassuring laugh. “True, you are not very friendly, yet you must recollect that she and I are friends. Her interests are identical with our own; therefore to expose us would be to expose herself at the same time.”
“A woman sometimes acts without forethought.”
“Quite true; but Ethelwynn is not one of those. She’s careful to preserve her own position in the eyes of her lover, knowing quite well that to tell the truth would be to expose her own baseness. A man may overlook many offences in the woman he loves, but this particular one of which she is guilty a man never forgives.”
His words went deep into my heart. Was not this further proof that the crime—for undoubtedly a crime had been accomplished in that house at Kew—had been committed by the hand of the woman I so fondly loved? All was so amazing, so utterly bewildering, that I stood there concealed by the tree, motionless as though turned to stone.
There was a motive wanting in it all. Yet I ask you who read this narrative of mine if, like myself, you would not have been staggered into dumbness at seeing and hearing a man whom you had certified to be dead, moving and speaking, and, moreover, in his usual health?
“He loves her!” his wife exclaimed, speaking of me. “He would forgive her anything. My own opinion is that if we would be absolutely secure it is for us to heal the breach between them.”
He remained thoughtful for a few moments, apparently in doubt as to the wisdom of acting upon her suggestion. Surely in the situation was an element of humour, for, happily, I was being forearmed.
“It might possibly be good policy,” he remarked at last. “If we could only bring them together again he would cease his constant striving to solve the enigma. We know well that he can never do that; nevertheless his constant efforts are as annoying as they are dangerous.”
“That’s just my opinion. There is danger to us in his constant inquiries, which are much more ingenious and careful than we imagine.”
“Well, my child,” he said, “you’ve stuck to me in this in a manner that few women would have dared. If you really think it necessary to bring Boyd and Ethelwynn together again you must do it entirely alone, for I could not possibly appear on the scene. He must never meet me, or the whole thing would be revealed.”
“For your sake I am prepared to make the attempt,” she said. “The fact of being Ethelwynn’s sister gives me freedom to speak my mind to him.”
“And to tell him some pretty little fiction about her?” he added, laughing.
“Yes. It will certainly be necessary to put an entirely innocent face on recent events in order to smooth matters over,” she admitted, joining in his laughter.
“Rather a difficult task to make the affair at Kew appear innocent,” he observed. “But you’re really a wonderful woman, Mary. The way you’ve acted your part in this affair is simply marvellous. You’ve deceived everyone—even that old potterer, Sir Bernard himself.”
“I’ve done it for your sake,” was her response. “I made a promise, and I’ve kept it. Up to the present we are safe, but we cannot take too many precautions. We have enemies and scandal-seekers on every side.”
“I admit that,” he replied, rather impatiently, I thought. “If you think it a wise course you had better lose no time in placing Ethelwynn’s innocence before her lover. You will see him in the morning, I suppose?”
“Probably not. He leaves by the eight o’clock train,” she said. “When my plans are matured I will call upon him in London.”
“And if any woman can deceive him, you can, Mary,” he laughed. “In those widow’s weeds of yours you could deceive the very devil himself!”
Mrs. Courtenay’s airy talk of deception threw an entirely fresh light upon her character. Hitherto I had held her in considerable esteem as a woman who, being bored to death by the eccentricities of her invalid husband, had sought distraction with her friends in town, but nevertheless honest and devoted to the man she had wedded. But these words of hers caused doubt to arise within my mind. That she had been devoted to her husband’s interest was proved by the clever imposture she was practising; indeed it seemed to me very much as if those frequent visits to town had been at the “dead” man’s suggestion and with his entire consent. But the more I reflected upon the extraordinary details of the tragedy and its astounding dénouement, the more hopeless and maddening became the problem.
“I shall probably go to town to-morrow,” she exclaimed, after smiling at his declaration. “Where are you in hiding just now?”
“In Birmingham. A large town is safer than a village. I return by the six o’clock train, and go again into close concealment.”
“But you know people in Birmingham, don’t you? We stayed there once with some people called Tremlett, I recollect.”
“Ah, yes,” he laughed. “But I am careful to avoid them. The district in which I live is far removed from them. Besides, I never by any chance go out by day. I’m essentially a nocturnal roamer.”
“And when shall we meet again?”
“By appointment, in the usual way.”
“At the usual place?” she asked.
“There can be no better, I think. It does not take you from home, and I am quite unknown down here.”
“If any of the villagers ever discovered us they might talk, and declare that I met a secret lover,” she laughed.
“If you are ever recognised, which I don’t anticipate is probable, we can at once change our place of meeting. At present there is no necessity for changing it.”
“Then, in the meantime, I will exercise my woman’s diplomacy to effect peace between Ethelwynn and the doctor,” she said. “It is the only way by which we can obtain security.”
“For the life of me I can’t discern the reason of his coolness towards her,” remarked my “dead” patient.
“He suspects her.”
“Of what?”
“Suspects the truth. She has told me so.”
Old Henry Courtenay grunted in dissatisfaction.
“Hasn’t she tried to convince him to the contrary?” he asked. “I was always under the impression that she could twist him round her finger—so hopelessly was he in love with her.”
“So she could before this unfortunate affair.”
“And now that he suspects the truth he’s disinclined to have any more to do with her—eh? Well,” he added, “after all, it’s only natural. She’s not so devilish clever as you, Mary, otherwise she would never have allowed herself to fall beneath suspicion. She must have somehow blundered.”
“To-morrow I shall go to town,” she said in a reflective voice. “No time should be lost in effecting the reconciliation between them.”
“You are right,” he declared. “You should commence at once. Call and talk with him. He believes so entirely in you. But promise me one thing; that you will not go to Ethelwynn,” he urged.
“Why not?”
“Because it is quite unnecessary,” he answered. “You are not good friends; therefore your influence upon the doctor should be a hidden one. She will believe that he has returned to her of his own free will; hence our position will be rendered the stronger. Act diplomatically. If she believes that you are interesting yourself in her affairs it may anger her.”
“Then you suggest that I should call upon the doctor in secret, and try and influence him in her favour without her being aware of it?”
“Exactly. After the reconciliation is effected you may tell her. At present, however, it is not wise to show our hand. By your visit to the doctor you may be able to obtain from him how much he knows, and what are his suspicions. One thing is certain, that with all his shrewdness he doesn’t dream the truth.”
“Who would?” she asked with a smile. “If the story were told, nobody would believe it.”
“That’s just it! The incredibility of the whole affair is what places us in such a position of security; for as long as I lie low and you continue to act the part of the interesting widow, nobody can possibly get at the truth.”
“I think I’ve acted my part well, up to the present,” she said, “and I hope to continue to do so. To influence the doctor will be a difficult task, I fear. But I’ll do my utmost, because I see that by the reconciliation Ethelwynn’s lips would be sealed.”
“Act with discretion, my dear,” urged the old man. “But remember that Boyd is not a man to be trifled with—and as for that accursed friend of his, Ambler Jevons, he seems second cousin to the very King of Darkness himself.”
“Never fear,” she laughed confidently. “Leave it to me—leave all to me.”
And then, agreeing that it was time they went back, they turned, retraced their steps, and passing through the small gate into the meadow, were soon afterwards lost to sight.
Truly my night’s adventure had been as strange and startling as any that has happened to living man, for what I had seen and heard opened up a hundred theories, each more remarkable and tragic than the other, until I stood utterly dumfounded and aghast.
On coming down to breakfast on the following morning I found Mrs. Mivart awaiting me alone. The old lady apologised for Mary’s non-appearance, saying that it was her habit to have her tea in her room, but that she sent me a message of farewell.
Had it been at all possible I would have left by a later train, for I was extremely anxious to watch her demeanour after last night’s clandestine meeting, but with such a crowd of patients awaiting me it was imperative to leave by the first train. Even that would not bring me to King’s Cross before nearly eleven o’clock.
“Well now, doctor,” Mrs. Mivart commenced rather anxiously when we were seated, and she had handed me my coffee. “You saw Mary last night, and had an opportunity of speaking with her. What is your opinion? Don’t hesitate to tell me frankly, for I consider that it is my duty to face the worst.”
“Really!” I exclaimed, looking straight at her after a moment’s reflection. “To speak candidly I failed to detect anything radically wrong in your daughter’s demeanour.”
“But didn’t you notice, doctor, how extremely nervous she is; how in her eyes there is a haunting, suspicious look, and how blank is her mind uponevery other subject but the great calamity that has befallen her?”
“I must really confess that these things were not apparent to me,” I answered. “I watched her carefully, but beyond the facts that she is greatly unnerved by the sad affair and that she is mourning deeply for her dead husband, I can discover nothing abnormal.”
“You are not of opinion, then, that her mind is growing unbalanced by the strain?”
“Not in the least,” I reassured her. “The symptoms she betrays are but natural in a woman of her nervous, highly-strung temperament.”
“But she unfortunately grieves too much,” remarked the old lady with a sigh. “His name is upon her lips at every hour. I’ve tried to distract her and urged her to accompany me abroad for a time, but all to no purpose. She won’t hear of it.”
I alone knew the reason of her refusal. In conspiracy with her “dead” husband it was impossible to be apart from him for long together. The undue accentuation of her daughter’s feigned grief had alarmed the old lady—and justly so. Now that I recollected, her conduct at table on the previous night was remarkable, having regard to the true facts of the case. I confess I had myself been entirely deceived into believing that her sorrow at Henry Courtenay’s death was unbounded. In every detail her acting was perfect, and bound to attract sympathy among her friends and arouse interest among strangers. I longed to explain to the quiet, charming old lady what I hadseen during my midnight ramble; but such a course was, as yet, impossible. Indeed, if I made a plain statement, such as I have given in the foregoing pages, surely no one would believe me. But every man has his romance, and this was mine.
Unable to reveal Mary’s secret, I was compelled reluctantly to take leave of her mother, who accompanied me out to where the dog-cart was in waiting.
“I scarcely know, doctor, how to thank you sufficiently,” the dear old lady said as I took her hand. “What you have told me reassures me. Of late I have been extremely anxious, as you may imagine.”
“You need feel no anxiety,” I declared. “She’s nervous and run down—that’s all. Take her away for a change, if possible. But if she refuses, don’t force her. Quiet is the chief medicine in her case. Good-bye.”
She pressed my hand again in grateful acknowledgment, and then I mounted into the conveyance and was driven to the station.
On the journey back to town I pondered long and deeply. Of a verity my short visit to Mrs. Mivart had been fraught with good results, and I was contemplating seeking Ambler Jevons at the earliest possible moment and relating to him my astounding discovery. The fact that old Courtenay was still living was absolutely beyond my comprehension. To endeavour to form any theory, or to try and account for the bewildering phenomenon, was utterly useless. I had seen him, and had overheard his words. I could surely believe my eyes and ears. And there it ended. The why and wherefore I put aside for the present,remembering Mary’s promise to him to come to town and have an interview with me.
Surely that meeting ought to be most interesting. I awaited it with the most intense anxiety, and yet in fear lest I might be led by her clever imposture to blurt out what I knew. I felt myself on the eve of a startling revelation; and my expectations were realized to the full, as the further portion of this strange romance will show.
I know that many narratives have been written detailing the remarkable and almost inconceivable machinations of those who have stained their hands with crime, but I honestly believe that the extraordinary features of my own life-romance are as strange as, if not stranger than, any hitherto recorded. Even my worst enemy could not dub me egotistical, I think; and surely the facts I have set down here are plain and unvarnished, without any attempt at misleading the reader into believing that which is untrue. Mine is a plain chronicle of a chain of extraordinary circumstances which led to an amazing dénouement.
From King’s Cross to Guy’s is a considerable distance, and when I alighted from the cab in the courtyard of the hospital it was nearly mid-day. Until two o’clock I was kept busy in the wards, and after a sandwich and a glass of sherry I drove to Harley Street, where I found Sir Bernard in his consulting-room for the first time for a month.
“Ah! Boyd,” he cried merrily, when I entered. “Thought I’d surprise you to-day. I felt quite well this morning, so resolved to come up and see LadyTwickenham and one or two others. I’m not at home to patients, and have left them to you.”
“Delighted to see you better,” I declared, wringing his hand. “They were asking after you at the hospital to-day. Vernon said he intended going down to see you to-morrow.”
“Kind of him,” the old man laughed, placing his thin hands together, after rubbing and readjusting his glasses. “You were away last night; out of town, they said.”
“Yes, I wanted a breath of fresh air,” I answered, laughing. I did not care to tell him where I had been, knowing that he held my love for Ethelwynn as the possible ruin of my career.
His curiosity seemed aroused; but, although he put to me an ingenious question, I steadfastly refused to satisfy him. I recollected too well his open condemnation of my love on previous occasions. Now that the “murdered” man was proved to be still alive, I surely had no further grounds for my suspicion of Ethelwynn. That she had, by her silence, deceived me regarding her engagement to Mr. Courtenay was plain, but the theory that it was her hand that had assassinated him was certainly disproved. Thus, although the discovery of the “dead” man’s continued existence deepened the mystery a thousandfold, it nevertheless dispelled from my heart a good deal of the suspicion regarding my well-beloved; and, in consequence, I was not desirous that any further hostile word should be uttered against her.
While Sir Bernard went out to visit her ladyship and two or three other nervous women living in thesame neighbourhood, I seated myself in his chair and saw the afternoon callers one after another. I fear that the advice I gave during those couple of hours was not very notable for its shrewdness or brilliancy. As in other professions, so in medicine, when one’s brain is overflowing with private affairs, one cannot attend properly to patients. On such occasions one is apt to ask the usual questions mechanically, hear the replies and scribble a prescription of some harmless formula. On the afternoon in question I certainly believe myself guilty of such lapse of professional attention. Yet even we doctors are human, although our patients frequently forget that fact. The medico is a long-suffering person, even in these days of scarcity of properly-qualified men—the first person called on emergency, and the very last to be paid!
It was past five o’clock before I was able to return to my rooms, and on arrival I found upon my table a note from Jevons. It was dated from the Yorick Club, a small but exceedingly comfortable Bohemian centre in Bedford Street, Covent Garden, and had evidently been written hurriedly on the previous night:—
“I hear you are absent in the country. That is unfortunate. But as soon as you receive this, lose no time in calling at the Hennikers’ and making casual inquiries regarding Miss Mivart. Something has happened, but what it is I have failed to discover. You stand a better chance. Go at once. I must leave for Bath to-night. Address me at the Royal Hotel, G. W. Station.“Ambler Jevons.”
“I hear you are absent in the country. That is unfortunate. But as soon as you receive this, lose no time in calling at the Hennikers’ and making casual inquiries regarding Miss Mivart. Something has happened, but what it is I have failed to discover. You stand a better chance. Go at once. I must leave for Bath to-night. Address me at the Royal Hotel, G. W. Station.
“Ambler Jevons.”
What could have transpired? And why had my friend’s movements been so exceedingly erratic of late, if he had not been following some clue? Would that clue lead him to the truth, I wondered? Or was he still suspicious of Ethelwynn’s guilt?
Puzzled by this vague note, and wondering what had occurred, and whether the trip to Bath was in connection with it, I made a hasty toilet and drove in a hansom to the Hennikers’.
Mrs. Henniker met me in the drawing-room, just as gushing and charming as ever. She was one of those many women in London who seek to hang on to the skirts of polite society by reason of a distant connexion being a countess—a fact of which she never failed to remind the stranger before half-an-hour’s acquaintance. She found it always a pleasant manner in which to open a conversation at dinner, dance, or soirée: “Oh! do you happen to know my cousin, Lady Nassington?” She never sufficiently realised it as bad form, and therefore in her own circle was known among the women, who jeered at her behind her back, as “The Cousin of Lady Nassington.” She was daintily dressed, and evidently just come in from visiting, for she still had her hat on when she entered.
“Ah!” she cried, with her usual buoyant air. “You truant! We’ve all been wondering what had become of you. Busy, of course! Always the same excuse! Find something fresh. You used it a fortnight ago to refuse my invitation to take pot-luck with us.”
I laughed at her unconventional greeting, replying, “If I say something fresh it must be a lie. You know,Mrs. Henniker, how hard I’m kept at it, with hospital work and private practice.”
“That’s all very well,” she said, with a slight pout of her well-shaped mouth—for she was really a pretty woman, even though full of airs and caprices. “But it doesn’t excuse you for keeping away from us altogether.”
“I don’t keep away altogether,” I protested. “I’ve called now.”
She pulled a wry face, in order to emphasise her dissatisfaction at my explanation, and said:
“And I suppose you are prepared to receive castigation? Ethelwynn has begun to complain because people are saying that your engagement is broken off.”
“Who says so?” I inquired rather angrily, for I hated all the tittle-tattle of that little circle of gossips who dawdle over the tea-cups of Redcliffe Square and its neighbourhood. I had attended a good many of them professionally at various times, and was well acquainted with all their ways and all their exaggerations. The gossiping circle in flat-land about Earl’s Court was bad enough, but the Redcliffe Square set, being slightly higher in the social scale, was infinitely worse.
“Oh! all the ill-natured people are commenting upon your apparent coolness. Once, not long ago, you used to be seen everywhere with Ethelwynn, and now no one ever sees you. People form a natural conclusion, of course,” said the fair-haired, fussy little woman, whose married state gave her the right to censure me on my neglect.
“Ethelwynn is, of course, still with you?” I asked, in anger that outsiders should seek to interfere in my private affairs.
“She still makes our house her home, not caring to go back to the dulness of Neneford,” was her reply. “But at present she’s away visiting one of her old schoolfellows—a girl who married a country banker and lives near Hereford.”
“Then she’s in the country?”
“Yes, she went three days ago. I thought she had written to you. She told me she intended doing so.”
I had received no letter from her. Indeed, our recent correspondence had been of a very infrequent and formal character. With a woman’s quick perception she had noted my coldness and had sought to show equal callousness. With the knowledge of Courtenay’s continued existence now in my mind, I was beside myself with grief and anger at having doubted her. But how could I act at that moment, save in obedience to my friend Jevons’ instructions? He had urged me to go and find out some details regarding her recent life with the Hennikers; and with that object I remarked:
“She hasn’t been very well of late, I fear. The change of air should do her good.”
“That’s true, poor girl. She’s seemed very unwell, and I’ve often told her that only one doctor in the world could cure her malady—yourself.”
I smiled. The malady was, I knew too well, the grief of a disappointed love, and a perfect cure for that could only be accomplished by reconciliation.I was filled with regret that she was absent, for I longed there and then to take her to my breast and whisper into her ear my heart’s outpourings. Yes; we men are very foolish in our impetuosity.
“How long will she be away?”
“Why?” inquired the smartly-dressed little woman, mischievously. “What can it matter to you?”
“I have her welfare at heart, Mrs. Henniker,” I answered seriously.
“Then you have a curious way of showing your solicitude on her behalf,” she said bluntly, smiling again. “Poor Ethelwynn has been pining day after day for a word from you; but you seldom, if ever, write, and when you do the coldness of your letters adds to her burden of grief. I knew always when she had received one by the traces of secret tears upon her cheeks. Forgive me for saying so, Doctor, but you men, either in order to test the strength of a woman’s affection, or perhaps out of mere caprice, often try her patience until the strained thread snaps, and she who was a good and pure woman becomes reckless of everything—her name, her family pride, and even her own honour.”
Her words aroused my curiosity.
“And you believe that Ethelwynn’s patience is exhausted?” I asked, anxiously.
Her eyes met mine, and I saw a mysterious expression in them. There is always something strange in the eyes of a pretty woman who is hiding a secret.
“Well, Doctor,” she answered, in a voice quite calm and deliberate, “you’ve already shown yourselfso openly as being disinclined to further associate yourself publicly with poor Ethelwynn, because of the tragedy that befell the household, that you surely cannot complain if you find your place usurped by a new and more devoted lover.”
“What!” I cried, starting up, fiercely. “What is this you tell me? Ethelwynn has a lover?”
“I have nothing whatever to do with her affairs, Doctor,” said the tantalising woman, who affected all the foibles of the smarter set. “Now that you have forsaken her she is, of course, entirely mistress of her own actions.”
“But I haven’t forsaken her!” I blurted forth.
She only smiled superciliously, with the same mysterious look—an expression that I cannot define, but by which I knew that she had told me the crushing truth. Ethelwynn, believing that I had cast her aside, had allowed herself to be loved by another!
Who was the man who had usurped my place? I deserved it all, without a doubt. You, reader, have already in your heart condemned me as being hard and indifferent towards the woman I once loved so truly and so well. But, in extenuation, I would ask you to recollect how grave were the suspicions against her—how every fact seemed to prove conclusively that her sister’s husband had died by her hand.
I saw plainly in Mrs. Henniker’s veiled words a statement of the truth; and, after obtaining from her Ethelwynn’s address near Hereford, bade her farewell and blindly left the house.
In the feverish restlessness of the London night, with its rumbling market-wagons and the constant tinkling of cab-bells, so different to the calm, moonlit stillness of the previous night in rural England, I wrote a long explanatory letter to my love.
I admitted that I had wronged her by my apparent coldness and indifference, but sought to excuse myself on the ground of the pressure of work upon me. She knew well that I was not a rich man, and in that slavery to which I was now tied I had an object—the object I had placed before her in the dawning days of our affection—namely, the snug country practice with an old-fashioned comfortable house in one of the quiet villages or smaller towns in the Midlands. In those days she had been just as enthusiastic about it as I had been. She hated town life, I knew; and even if the wife of a country doctor is allowed few diversions, she can always form a select little tea-and-tennis circle of friends.
The fashion nowadays is for girls of middle-class to regard the prospect of becoming a country doctor’s wife with considerable hesitation—“too slow,” they term it; and declare that to live in the country and drive in a governess-cart is synonymous with being buried. Many girls marry just as servants changetheir places—in order “to better themselves;” and alas! that parents encourage this latter-day craze for artificiality and glitter of town life that so often fascinates and spoils a bride ere the honeymoon is over. The majority of girls to-day are not content to marry the hard-working professional man whose lot is cast in the country, but prefer to marry a man in town, so that they may take part in the pleasures of theatres, variety and otherwise, suppers at restaurants, and the thousand and one attractions provided for the reveller in London. They have obtained their knowledge of “life” from the society papers, and they see no reason why they should not taste of those pleasures enjoyed by their wealthier sisters, whose goings and comings are so carefully chronicled. The majority of girls have a desire to shine beyond their own sphere; and the attempt, alas! is accountable for very many of the unhappy marriages. This may sound prosy, I know, but the reader will forgive when he reflects upon the cases in point which arise to his memory—cases of personal friends, perhaps even of relations, to whom marriage was a failure owing to this uncontrollable desire on the part of the woman to assume a position to which neither birth nor wealth entitled her.
To the general rule, however, my love was an exception. Times without number had she declared her anxiety to settle in the country; for, being country born and bred, she was an excellent horsewoman, and in every essential a thorough English girl of the Grass Country, fond of a run with either fox or otterhounds; therefore, in suburban life at Kew, she had been entirely out of her element.
In that letter I wrote, composing it slowly and carefully—for like most medical men I am a bad hand at literary composition—I sought her forgiveness, and asked for an immediate interview. The wisdom of being so precipitous never occurred to me. I only know that in those night hours over my pipe I resolved to forget once and for all that letter I had discovered among the “dead” man’s effects, and determined that, while I sought reconciliation with Ethelwynn, I would keep an open and watchful eye upon Mary and her fellow conspirator.
The suggestion that Ethelwynn, believing herself forsaken, had accepted the declarations of a man she considered more worthy than myself, lashed me to a frenzy of madness. He should never have her, whoever he might be. She had been mine, and should remain so, come what might. I added a postscript, asking her to wire me permission to travel down to Hereford to see her; then, sealing up the letter, I went out along the Marylebone Road and posted it in the pillar-box, which I knew was cleared at five o’clock in the morning.
It was then about three o’clock, calm, but rather overcast. The Marylebone Road had at last become hushed in silence. Wagons and cabs had both ceased, and save for a solitary policeman here and there the long thoroughfare, so full of traffic by day, was utterly deserted. I retraced my steps slowly towards the corner of Harley Street, and was aboutto open the door of the house wherein I had “diggings” when I heard a light, hurried footstep behind me, and turning, confronted the figure of a slim woman of middle height wearing a golf cape, the hood of which had been thrown over her head in lieu of a hat.
“Excuse me, sir,” she cried, in a breathless voice, “but are you Doctor Boyd?”
I replied that such was my name.
“Oh, I’m in such distress,” she said, in the tone of one whose heart is full of anguish. “My poor father!”
“Is your father ill?” I inquired, turning from the door and looking full at her. I was standing on the step, and she was on the pavement, having evidently approached from the opposite direction. She stood with her back to the street lamp, so I could discern nothing of her features. Only her voice told me that she was young.
“Oh, he’s very ill,” she replied anxiously. “He was taken queer at eleven o’clock, but he wouldn’t hear of me coming to you. He’s one of those men who don’t like doctors.”
“Ah!” I remarked; “there are many of his sort about. But they are compelled to seek our aid now and then. Well, what can I do for you? I suppose you want me to see him—eh?”
“Yes, sir, if you’d be so kind. I know its awfully late; but, as you’ve been out, perhaps you wouldn’t mind running round to our house. It’s quite close, and I’ll take you there.” She spoke with the peculiardrawl and dropped her “h’s” in the manner of the true London-bred girl.
“I’ll come if you’ll wait a minute,” I said, and then, leaving her outside, I entered the house and obtained my thermometer and stethoscope.
When I rejoined her and closed the door I made some inquiries about the sufferer’s symptoms, but the description she gave me was so utterly vague and contradictory that I could make nothing out of it. Her muddled idea of his illness I put down to her fear and anxiety for his welfare.
She had no mother, she told me; and her father had, of late, given way just a little to drink. He “used” the Haycock, in Edgware Road; and she feared that he had fallen among a hard-drinking set. He was a pianoforte-maker, and had been employed at Brinsmead’s for eighteen years. Since her mother died, six years ago, however, he had never been the same.
“It was then that he took to drink?” I hazarded.
“Yes,” she responded. “He was devoted to her. They never had a wry word.”
“What has he been complaining of? Pains in the head—or what?”
“Oh, he’s seemed thoroughly out of sorts,” she answered after some slight hesitation, which struck me as peculiar. She was greatly agitated regarding his illness, yet she could not describe one single symptom clearly. The only direct statement she made was that her father had certainly not been drinking on the previous night, for he had remainedindoors ever since he came home from the works, as usual, at seven o’clock.
As she led me along the Marylebone Road, in the same direction as that I had just traversed—which somewhat astonished me—I glanced surreptitiously at her, just at the moment when we were approaching a street lamp, and saw to my surprise that she was a sad-faced girl whose features were familiar. I recognised her in a moment as the girl who had been my fellow passenger from Brighton on that Sunday night. Her hair, however, was dishevelled, as though she had turned out from her bed in too great alarm to think of tidying it. I was rather surprised, but did not claim acquaintance with her. She led me past Madame Tussaud’s, around Baker Street Station, and then into the maze of those small cross-streets that lie between Upper Baker Street and Lisson Grove until she stopped before a small, rather respectable-looking house, half-way along a short side-street, entering with a latch-key.
In the narrow hall it was quite dark, but she struck a match and lit a cheap paraffin lamp which stood there in readiness, then led me upstairs to a small sitting-room on the first floor, a dingy, stuffy little place of a character which showed me that she and her father lived in lodgings. Having set the lamp on the table, and saying that she would go and acquaint the invalid with my arrival, she went out, closing the door quietly after her. The room was evidently the home of a studious, if poor, man, for in a small deal bookcase I noticed, well-kept and well-arranged,a number of standard works on science and theology, as well as various volumes which told me mutely that their owner was a student, while upon the table lay a couple of critical reviews, the “Saturday” and “Spectator.”
I took up the latter and glanced it over in order to pass the time, for my conductress seemed to be in consultation with her father. My eye caught an article that interested me, and I read it through, forgetting for a moment all about my call there. Fully ten minutes elapsed, when of a sudden I heard the voice of a man speaking somewhat indistinctly in a room above that in which I was sitting. He seemed to be talking low and gruffly, so that I was unable to distinguish what was said. At last, however, the girl returned, and, asking me to follow her, conducted me to a bedroom on the next floor.
The only illumination was a single night-light burning in a saucer, casting a faint, uncertain glimmer over everything, and shaded with an open book so that the occupant of the bed lay in deepest shadow. Unlike what one would have expected to find in such a house, an iron bedstead with brass rail, the bed was a great old-fashioned one with heavy wool damask hangings; and advancing towards it, while the girl retired and closed the door after her, I bent down to see the invalid.
In the shadow I could just distinguish on the pillow a dark-bearded face whose appearance was certainly not prepossessing.
“You are not well?” I said, inquiringly, as our eyes met in the dim half-light. “Your daughter is distressed about you.”
“Yes, I’m a bit queer,” he growled. “But she needn’t have bothered you.”
“Let me remove the shade from the light, so that I can see your face,” I suggested. “It’s too dark to see anything.”
“No,” he snapped; “I can’t bear the light. You can see quite enough of me here.”
“Very well,” I said, reluctantly, and taking his wrist in one hand I held my watch in the other.
“I fancy you’ll find me a bit feverish,” he said in a curious tone, almost as though he were joking, and by his manner I at once put him down as one of those eccentric persons who are sceptical of any achievements of medical science.
I was holding his wrist and bending towards the light, in order to distinguish the hands of my watch, when a strange thing happened.
There was a deafening explosion close behind me, which caused me to jump back startled. I dropped the man’s hand and turned quickly in the direction of the sound; but, as I did so, a second shot from a revolver held by an unknown person was discharged full in my face.
The truth was instantly plain. I had been entrapped for my watch and jewellery—like many another medical man in London has been before me; doctors being always an easy prey for thieves. The ruffian shamming illness sprang from his bed fully dressed,and at the same moment two other blackguards, who had been hidden in the room, flung themselves upon me ere I could realize my deadly peril.
The whole thing had been carefully planned, and it was apparent that the gang were quite fearless of neighbours overhearing the shots. The place bore a bad reputation, I knew; but I had never suspected that a man might be fired at from behind in that cowardly way.
So sudden and startling were the circumstances that I stood for a moment motionless, unable to fully comprehend their intention. There was but one explanation. These men intended to kill me!
Without a second’s hesitation they rushed upon me, and I realized with heart-sinking that to attempt to resist would be utterly futile. I was entirely helpless in their hands!
“Look sharp!” cried the black-bearded ruffian who had feigned illness. “Give him a settler, ’Arry. He wants his nerves calmin’ a bit!”
The fellow had seized my wrists, and I saw that one of the men who had sprung from his place of concealment was pouring some liquid from a bottle upon a sponge. I caught a whiff of its odour—an odour too familiar to me—the sickly smell of chloroform.
Fortunately I am pretty athletic, and with a sudden wrench I freed my wrists from the fellow’s grip, and, hitting him one from the shoulder right between the eyes, sent him spinning back against the chest of drawers. To act swiftly was my only chance. If once they succeeded in pressing that sponge to my nostrils and holding it there, then all would be over; for by their appearance I saw they were dangerous criminals, and not men to stick at trifles. They would murder me.
As I sent down the man who had shammed illness, his two companions dashed towards me with imprecations upon their lips; but with lightning speed I sprangtowards the door and placed my back against it. So long as I could face them I intended to fight for life. Their desire was, I knew, to attack me from behind, as they had already done. I had surely had a narrow escape from their bullets, for they had fired at close range.
At Guy’s many stories have been told of similar cases where doctors, known to wear valuable watches, diamond rings or scarf pins, have been called at night by daring thieves and robbed; therefore I always, as precaution, placed my revolver in my pocket when I received a night call to a case with which I was not acquainted.
I had not disregarded my usual habit when I had placed my thermometer and stethoscope in my pocket previous to accompanying the girl; therefore it reposed there fully loaded, a fact of which my assailants were unaware.
In much quicker time than it takes to narrate the incident I was again pounced upon by all three, the man with the sponge in readiness to dash it to my mouth and nostrils.
But as they sprang forward to seize me, I raised my hand swiftly, took aim, and fired straight at the holder of the sponge, the bullet passing through his shoulder and causing him to drop the anæsthetic as though it were a live coal, and to spring several feet from the ground.
“God! I’m shot!” he cried.
But ere the words had left his mouth I fired asecond chamber, inflicting a nasty wound in the neck of the fellow with the black beard.
“Shoot! shoot!” he cried to the third man, but it was evident that in the first struggle, when I had been seized, the man’s revolver had dropped on the carpet, and in the semi-darkness he could not recover it.
Recognising this, I fired a pot shot in the man’s direction; then, opening the door, sprang down the stairs into the hall. One of them followed, but the other two, wounded as they were, did not care to face my weapon again. They saw that I knew how to shoot, and probably feared that I might inflict a fatal hurt.
As I approached the front door, and was fumbling with the lock, the third man flung himself upon me, determined that I should not escape. With great good fortune, however, I managed to unbolt the door, and after a desperate struggle, in which he endeavoured to wrest the weapon from my hand, I succeeded at last in gripping him by the throat, and after nearly strangling him flung him to the ground and escaped into the street, just as his associates, hearing his cries of distress, dashed downstairs to his assistance.
Without doubt it was the narrowest escape of my life that I have ever had, and so excited was I that I dashed down the street hatless until I emerged into Lisson Grove. Then, and only then, it occurred to me that, having taken no note of the house, I should be unable to recogniseit and denounce it to the police. But when one is in peril of one’s life all other thoughts or instincts are submerged in the one frantic effort of self-preservation. Still, it was annoying to think that such scoundrels should be allowed to go scot free.
Breathless, excited, and with nerves unstrung, I opened my door with my latch-key and returned to my room, where the reading-lamp had burned low, for it had been alight all through the night. I mixed myself a stiff brandy and soda, tossed it off, and then turned to look at myself in the glass.
The picture I presented was disreputable and unkempt. My hair was ruffled, my collar torn open from its stud, and one sleeve of my coat had been torn out, so that the lining showed through. I had a nasty scratch across the neck, too, inflicted by the fingernails of one of the blackguards, and from the abrasion blood had flowed and made a mess of my collar.
Altogether I presented a very brilliant and entertaining spectacle. But my watch, ring and scarf-pin were in their places. If robbery had been their motive, as no doubt it had been, then they had profited nothing, and two of them had been winged into the bargain. The only mode by which their identity could by chance be discovered was in the event of those wounds being troublesome. In that case they would consult a medical man; but as they would, in all probability, go to some doctor in adistant quarter of London, the hope of tracing them by such means was but a slender one.
Feeling a trifle faint I sat in my chair, resting for a quarter of an hour or so; then, becoming more composed, I put out the study lights, and after a refreshing wash went to bed.
The morning’s reflections were somewhat disconcerting. A deliberate and dastardly attempt had been made upon my life; but with what motive? The young woman, whose face was familiar, had, I recollected, asked most distinctly whether I was Doctor Boyd—a fact which showed that the trap had been prepared. I now saw the reason why she was unable to describe the man’s sham illness, and during the morning, while at work in the hospital wards, my suspicions became aroused that there had been some deeper motive in it all than the robbery of my watch or scarf-pin. Human life had been taken for far less value than that of my jewellery, I knew; nevertheless, the deliberate shooting at me while I felt the patient’s pulse showed a determination to assassinate. By good fortune, however, I had escaped, and resolved to exercise more care in future when answering night calls to unknown houses.
Sir Bernard did not come to town that day; therefore I was compelled to spend the afternoon in the severe consulting-room at Harley Street, busy the whole time. Shortly before six o’clock, utterly worn out, I strolled round to my rooms to change my coat before going down to the Savage Clubto dine with my friends—for it was Saturday night, and I seldom missed the genial house-dinner of that most Bohemian of institutions.
Without ceremony I threw open the door of my sitting-room and entered, but next instant stood still, for, seated in my chair patiently awaiting me was the slim, well-dressed figure of Mary Courtenay. Her widow’s weeds became her well; and as she rose with a rustle of silk, a bright laugh rippled from her lips, and she said:
“I know I’m an unexpected visitor, Doctor, but you’ll forgive my calling in this manner, won’t you?”
“Forgive you? Of course,” I answered; and with politeness which I confess was feigned, I invited her to be seated. True to the promise made to her husband, she had lost no time in coming to see me, but I was fortunately well aware of the purport of her errand.
“I had no idea you were in London,” I said, by way of allowing her to explain the object of her visit, for, in the light of the knowledge I had gained on the Nene bank two nights previously, her call was of considerable interest.
“I’m only up for a couple of days,” she answered. “London has not the charm for me that it used to have,” and she sighed heavily, as though her mind were crowded by bitter memories. Then raising her veil, and revealing her pale, handsome face, she said bluntly, “The reason of my call is to talk to you about Ethelwynn.”
“Well, what of her?” I asked, looking straight into her face and noticing for the first time a curious shifty look in her eyes, such as I had never before noticed in her. She tried to remain calm, but, by the nervous twitching of her fingers and lower lip, I knew that within her was concealed a tempest of conflicting emotions.
“To speak quite frankly, Ralph,” she said in a calm, serious voice, “I don’t think you are treating her honourably, poor girl. You seem to have forsaken her altogether, and the neglect has broken her heart.”
“No, Mrs. Courtenay; you misunderstand the situation,” I protested. “That I have neglected her slightly I admit; nevertheless the neglect was not wilful, but owing to my constant occupation in my practice.”
“She’s desperate. Besides, it’s common talk that you’ve broken off the engagement.”
“Gossip does not affect me; therefore why should she take any heed of it?”
“Well, she loves you. That you know quite well. You surely could not have been deceived in those days at Kew, for her devotion to you was absolute and complete.” She was pleading her sister’s cause just as Courtenay had directed her. I felt annoyed that she should thus endeavour to impose upon me, yet saw the folly of betraying the fact that I knew her secret. My intention was to wait and watch.
“I called at the Hennikers’ a couple of days ago,but Ethelwynn is no longer there. She’s gone into the country, it seems,” I remarked.
“Where to?” she asked quickly.
“She’s visiting someone near Hereford.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, as though a sudden light dawned upon her. “I know, then. Why, I wonder, did she not tell me. I intended to call on her this evening, but it is useless. I’m glad to know, for I don’t care much for Mrs. Henniker. She’s such a very shallow woman.”
“Ethelwynn seems to have wandered about a good deal since the sad affair at Kew,” I observed.
“Yes, and so have I,” she responded. “As you are well aware, the blow was such a terrible one to me that—that somehow I feel I shall never get over it—never!” I saw tears, genuine tears, welling in her eyes. If she could betray emotion in that manner she was surely a wonderful actress.
“Time will efface your sorrow,” I said, in a voice meant to be sympathetic. “In a year or two your grief will not be so poignant, and the past will gradually fade from your memory. It is always so.”
She shook her head mournfully.
“No,” she said, “for in addition to my grief there is the mystery of it all—a mystery that grows each day more and more inscrutable.”
I glanced sharply at her in surprise. Was she trying to mislead me, or were her words spoken in real earnest? I could not determine.
“Yes,” I acquiesced. “The mystery is as complete as ever.”
“Has no single clue been found, either by the police or by your friend—Jevons is, I think, his name?” she asked, with keen anxiety.
“One or two points have, I believe, been elucidated,” I answered; “but the mystery still remains unsolved.”
“As it ever will be,” she added, with a sigh which appeared to me to be one of satisfaction, rather than of regret. “The details were so cleverly arranged that the police have been baffled in every endeavour. Is not that so?”
I nodded in the affirmative.
“And your friend Jevons? Has he given up all hope of any satisfactory discovery?”
“I really don’t know,” I answered. “I’ve not seen him for quite a long time. And in any case he has told me nothing regarding the result of his investigations. It is his habit to be mute until he has gained some tangible result.”
A puzzled, apprehensive expression crossed her white brow for a moment; then it vanished into a pleasant smile, as she asked in confidence:
“Now, tell me, Ralph, what is your own private opinion of the situation?”
“Well, it is both complicated and puzzling. If we could discover any reason for the brutal deed we might get a clue to the assassin; but as far as the police have been able to gather, it seems that there is an entire absence of motive; hence the impossibility of carrying the inquiries further.”
“Then the investigation is actually dropped?” she exclaimed, unable to further conceal her anxiety.
“I presume it is,” I replied.
Her chest heaved slightly, and slowly fell again. By its movement I knew that my answer allowed her to breathe more freely.
“You also believe that your friend Jevons has been compelled, owing to negative results, to relinquish his efforts?” she asked.
“Such is my opinion. But I have not seen him lately in order to consult him.”
In silence she listened to my answer, and was evidently reassured by it; yet I could not, for the life of me, understand her manner—at one moment nervous and apprehensive, and at the next full of an almost imperious self-confidence. At times the expression in her eyes was such as justified her mother in the fears she had expressed to me. I tried to diagnose her symptoms, but they were too complicated and contradictory.
She spoke again of her sister, returning to the main point upon which she had sought the interview. She was a decidedly attractive woman, with a face rendered more interesting by her widow’s garb.
But why was she masquerading so cleverly? For what reason had old Courtenay contrived to efface his identity so thoroughly? As I looked at her, mourning for a man who was alive and well, I utterly failed to comprehend one single fact of the astounding affair. It staggered belief!
“Let me speak candidly to you, Ralph,” she said, after we had been discussing Ethelwynn for some little time. “As you may readily imagine, I have my sister’s welfare very much at heart, and my only desire is to see her happy and comfortable, instead of pining in melancholy as she now is. I ask you frankly, have you quarrelled?”
“No, we have not,” I answered promptly.
“Then if you have not, your neglect is all the more remarkable,” she said. “Forgive me for speaking like this, but our intimate acquaintanceship in the past gives me a kind of prerogative to speak my mind. You won’t be offended, will you?” she asked, with one of those sweet smiles of hers that I knew so well.
“Offended? Certainly not, Mrs. Courtenay. We are too old friends for that.”
“Then take my advice and see Ethelwynn again,” she urged. “I know how she adores you; I know how your coldness has crushed all the life out of her. She hides her secret from mother, and for that reason will not come down to Neneford. See her, and return to her; for it is a thousand pities that two lives should be wrecked so completely by some little misunderstanding which will probably be explained away in a dozen words. You may consider this appeal an extraordinary one, made by one sister on behalf of another, but when I tell you that I have not consulted Ethelwynn, nor does she know that I am here on her behalf, you will readily understand that I have both your interests equally at heart.To me it seems a grievous thing that you should be placed apart in this manner; that the strong love you bear each other should be crushed, and your future happiness be sacrificed. Tell me plainly,” she asked in earnestness. “You love her still—don’t you?”
“I do,” was my frank, outspoken answer, and it was the honest truth.