In White Raiment

by William Le Queux

may hiss, eggs may be boiled to the precisedegree of solidity, frizzling strips of "home-cured" may smile upon youfrom dish of silver, or golden marmalade may strive to allure you withthe richness of its hue, but if the morning letters are not present thepicture is incomplete. They are the crowning glory of the Britishbreakfast table.

  For a good many days my correspondents had happily left me in the lurch,but as I sank into my seat I saw upon my plate a single letter, and tookit up mechanically. As a rule the handwriting of the envelope betrayedthe writer, but this possessed the additional attraction of unfamiliarpenmanship. It had been addressed to Rowan Road, and Bob had forwardedit.

  The communication was upon paper of pale straw-colour, headed"Metropolitan Police, T. Division, Brentford," and signed "J. Rowling,sub-divisional inspector." There were only two or three lines, askingwhether I could make it convenient to appoint an hour when he could callupon me, as he wished to consult me upon "a matter of extremeimportance." The matter referred to was, of course, the tragedy atWhitton. Truth to tell, I was sick at heart of all this ever-increasingmaze of circumstances, and placed the letter in my pocket with a resolveto allow the affair to rest until I returned to London on the conclusionof my visit.

  The receipt of it, however, had served one purpose admirably: it hadgiven me an opportunity to recover my surprise at discovering Berylsitting there opposite me, bright and vivacious, as though nothingunusual had occurred. The letter which I had seen her writing in thestudy on the previous evening had been, I now felt convinced, to make anappointment which she had kept.

  But with whom?

  I glanced at my hostess, who was busily arranging with those near her attable for a driving party to visit the Haywards at Dodington Park, andwondered whether she could be aware of the strange midnight visitant. Icontrived to have a brief chat with her after breakfast was finished,but she appeared in entire ignorance of what had transpired during thenight. I lit a cigarette, and as usual strolled around for a morningvisit to the kennels with Sir Henry. On returning I saw my well-belovedseated beneath one of the great trees near the house, reading a novel.The morning was hot, but in the shade it was delightful. As I crossedthe grass to her she raised her head, and then, smiling gladly,exclaimed--

  "Why, I thought you'd gone to Dodington with the others, DoctorColkirk?"

  "No," I answered, taking a chair near her; "I'm really very lazy thishot weather."

  How charming she looked in her fresh cotton gown and large flop-hat ofLeghorn straw trimmed with poppies.

  "And I prefer quiet and an interesting book to driving in this sun. Iwonder they didn't start about three, and come home in the sunset. ButNora's always so wilful."

  Though as merry as was her wont, I detected a tired look in her eyes.Where had she been during the long night--and with whom? The silencewas only disturbed by the hum of the insects about us and the songs ofthe birds above. The morning was a perfect one.

  "I found it very oppressive last night," I said, carefully approachingthe subject upon which I wanted to talk to her. "I couldn't sleep, so Icame out here into the park."

  "Into the park?" she echoed quickly, and I saw by her look that she wasapprehensive.

  "Yes. It was a beautiful night--cool, refreshing, and starlit."

  "You were alone?"

  I hesitated. Then, looking her straight in the face, answered--

  "No, I was not. I had yourself as company."

  The colour in an instant left her cheeks.

  "Me?" she gasped.

  "Yes," I replied, in a low, earnest voice. "You were also in the parklast night."

  She was silent.

  "I did not see you," she faltered. Then, as though recovering herself-possession, she added, with some hauteur, "And even if I chose towalk here after every one had gone to rest, I really don't think thatyou have any right to question my actions."

  "Forgive me," I said quickly. "I do not question you in the least; Ihave no right to do so. You are certainly free to do as you please,save where you neglect your own interests or place yourself in peril--asyou did last night."

  "In peril of what?" she demanded defiantly.

  "In peril of falling a victim to the vengeance of an enemy."

  "I don't understand you."

  "Then I will speak more frankly, Miss Wynd, in the hope that you will beequally frank with me," I said, my eyes fixed upon her. "You were lastnight, or, rather, at an early hour this morning, with a person whom youhave met on a previous occasion."

  "I admit that. It is, indeed, useless to deny it," she answered.

  "And yet, on the last occasion that you met, you nearly lost your life!Was it wise?"

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

  "The woman in black who called at Gloucester Square on that evening notso many days ago. You surely remember her? Was it not after herdeparture 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 ustogether."

  "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 myprivate affairs."

  "A lover?" I said, with some asperity perhaps. "You are entirely atliberty to think what you please. I only deny that I have set eyes uponmy mysterious visitor since that evening in Gloucester Square."

  "Well, she was in the house last night," I answered decisively. "Shewas 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 anexact account of all that transpired--how she had first entered my room,and how the strange evil of her presence had so strangely affected meafterwards.

  "It's absolutely astounding," she declared. "I was utterly ignorant ofit all. Are you absolutely certain that it was the same woman?"

  "The description given of her by yourself and your cousin's servant isexact. She came here with some distinctly sinister purpose, that isquite evident."

  "But she must have entered by the servants' quarters if she passedthrough the hall as you have described. She seemed to have been insearch of us both."

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

  "But what could she want with us?" she asked in a voice which told methat this unexpected revelation had unnerved her.

  "Ah, that I cannot tell," I responded. "She came here with an evilpurpose, and fortunately we were both absent from our rooms."

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

  "And you say that you actually experienced in your own room, onreturning there, an exactly similar sensation to that which we all feltat Gloucester Square?"

  "Exactly."

  "Do you know," she faltered, "I felt the same sensation in my own roomthis 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," Iresponded very earnestly. "For some unaccountable reason we are markeddown as victims--why, I cannot tell. You will forgive me for speakingplainly, but I believe that you alone hold the key to the mystery, thatyou alone know the motive of this vengeance--if vengeance it be--and ifyou were to tell me frankly of the past we might unite to vanquish ourenemies."

  "What do you mean by the past?" she inquired, with just a touch ofindignation.

  "The
re are several questions I have put to you which you have refused toanswer," I replied. "The light which you could throw upon two or threepoints, now in obscurity, might lead me to a knowledge of the wholetruth."

  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 ofputting it?"

  She nodded, but made no response.

  "You have feared to tell me of the one fact concerning yourself whichhas, in my belief,