I told him of the inquiries made by the British Consul in Christiania, and added
I have here the captains written orders from your firm, signed by yourself. And I produced the letter.
He glanced it through eagerly, and then carefully scrutinised the signature.
This renders the affair far more mysterious, he exclaimed with increased interest. The letter-paper is certainly ours, but the whole thing is a forgery.
It is not your signature?
No, certainly not only a clumsy imitation; and taking up a pen, he wrote his signature and handed them both to me for comparison. At once I saw that several of the peculiarities of his handwriting were absent from Banfields orders.
The type-writing is done by a different machine to ours. We use Bar-Locks, while this has probably been written by a Remington, he went on. Besides, look at the edge of the paper, and youll see that it is badly cut. It is, without doubt, a sheet out of several reams, that were delivered by the stationers some months ago, and were rejected by me because of the careless manner in which the edges had been cut.
Then he touched his bell and the chief clerk appeared. To him he showed the letter, and without a moments hesitation he declared it to be a forgery.
Without going into details of the events of that memorable night, I described how I had recovered consciousness to find myself at sea, and the strict obedience, of the captain to the orders he had received.
Well, all I can conjecture is, declared the manager, much puzzled, that you have fallen the victim of some clever conspiracy. The details show that there was some strong motive for your abduction, and that the conspirators well knew that Banfield remained at home until almost the last moment before sailing. They were, therefore, enabled to put you on board during his absence. The forged orders, too, were brief and well to the point in fact, worded just as they might be if sent from this house. No; depend upon it there has been some very ingenious plotting somewhere.
I remained with him a short time longer, then, realising the uselessness of occupying his time, I withdrew, and in further prosecution of my inquiries drove to Doctors Commons.
Here, after certain formalities, I gained knowledge which seemed of distinct advantage. Of the official there I learned that the special licence by which I had been married had been applied for by Beryl herself, and was shown a copy of the application signed by her, Beryl Wynd.
I read the document through, and its contents held me in amazement, for it prayed that a licence might be issued for the solemnisation of marriage in the church of St. Anns, 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 Raymonds invitation to be his guest.
But my main object in making inquiries at the registry was to discover my wifes 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, Earls-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 Beryls 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 Earls 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. Anns, Wilton Place, and saw the register I had signed, but the officiating clergyman had been a friend of Wynds, 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 Raymonds 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 Im so glad you are back again sir. Its given my daughter and me such a fright. We imagined all sorts of horrible things like those we read of in Lloyds and Reynolds.
Well, Im back again, Mrs Bishop, I answered as carelessly as I could. And Im confoundedly hungry and tired. Get me a cup of tea and a chop, theres a good woman. And I ascended to Bobs 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.