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nothitherto realised my position. My heart sank within me.

  "Would that your suggestion could be carried out," I replied. "But,truth to tell, I don't know the house, for I took no notice of itssituation, and am unable to tell the name of the road."

  "Ah! how extremely unfortunate. London is a big place, and there arethousands of houses that are outwardly the same. Didn't the servant whocalled at your surgery give you the address?"

  "No; she gave it to the cabman, but I did not catch it. Men of myprofession take little heed of the exterior of houses. We make a noteof the number in our visiting-books--that's all."

  "Then you really haven't any idea of the situation of the house in whichthe tragedy occurred?"

  "None whatever," I replied. A moment later a further thought occurredto me, and I added, "But would not the registry of marriages give theaddress of my bride?"

  "Why, of course it would!" cried the Consul excitedly. "An excellentidea. Return to London as quickly as you can, and search the marriageregister. From that I'm certain you'll obtain a clue."

  CHAPTER SEVEN.

  MY NEW PATIENT.

  On Friday morning I entered the office of Messrs. Hanway Brothers inLeadenhall Street, and after a short wait was accorded an interview withthe manager.

  I demanded, of course, an explanation why I had been shipped away fromLondon in such a summary manner, whereupon he apparently regarded me asa lunatic.

  "I really had no knowledge of the affair," he replied, smilingincredulously. "Do you actually allege you were taken on board the_Petrel_ and kept imprisoned in a cabin by Captain Banfield? A mostextraordinary story, to say the least."

  I told him of the inquiries made by the British Consul in Christiania,and added--

  "I have here the captain's written orders from your firm, signed byyourself." And I produced the letter.

  He glanced it through eagerly, and then carefully scrutinised thesignature.

  "This renders the affair far more mysterious," he exclaimed withincreased interest. "The letter-paper is certainly ours, but the wholething is a forgery."

  "It is not your signature?"

  "No, certainly not--only a clumsy imitation;" and taking up a pen, hewrote his signature and handed them both to me for comparison. At onceI saw that several of the peculiarities of his handwriting were absentfrom Banfield's orders.

  "The type-writing is done by a different machine to ours. We useBar-Locks, while this has probably been written by a Remington," he wenton. "Besides, look at the edge of the paper, and you'll see that it isbadly cut. It is, without doubt, a sheet out of several reams, thatwere delivered by the stationers some months ago, and were rejected byme 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 showedthe letter, and without a moment's hesitation he declared it to be aforgery.

  Without going into details of the events of that memorable night, Idescribed how I had recovered consciousness to find myself at sea, andthe 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 detailsshow that there was some strong motive for your abduction, and that theconspirators well knew that Banfield remained at home until almost thelast moment before sailing. They were, therefore, enabled to put you onboard during his absence. The forged orders, too, were brief and wellto the point--in fact, worded just as they might be if sent from thishouse. No; depend upon it there has been some very ingenious plottingsomewhere."

  I remained with him a short time longer, then, realising the uselessnessof occupying his time, I withdrew, and in further prosecution of myinquiries drove to Doctors' Commons.

  Here, after certain formalities, I gained knowledge which seemed ofdistinct advantage. Of the official there I learned that the speciallicence by which I had been married had been applied for by Berylherself, and was shown a copy of the application signed by her, "BerylWynd."

  I read the document through, and its contents held me in amazement, forit prayed "that a licence might be issued for the solemnisation ofmarriage in the church of St Ann's, Wilton Place, between herself andRichard Dawes Colkirk, bachelor, Doctor of Medicine, of 114, Rowan Road,Hammersmith." Besides, it was dated nearly a fortnight before--soonafter I had accepted Raymond's invitation to be his guest.

  But my main object in making inquiries at the registry was to discovermy wife's address, and in this I was successful, for in the samedocument 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 hadbeen 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 Iremember aright."

  "And her hair?"

  "It was of a colour rather unusual," answered the man, peering at methrough his spectacles. "A kind of golden-brown."

  The description was exact. Beryl had been there, and of her own accordapplied 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. Whatkind 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 tothat of Tattersett. The truth seemed plain: the Major had posed asBeryl's father, and had given his consent to the marriage.

  The registry official, a little dry-as-dust individual who woresteel-rimmed spectacles poised far down his thin nose, endeavoured tolearn who and what I was; but I merely replied that I was makinginquiries on behalf of certain friends of the lady, and having satisfiedmyself 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 bythe underground railway to Earl's Court, and experienced but littledifficulty in discovering Number 46. It stood on the right, betweenPark Terrace and Scarsdale Villas; but at a single glance I saw that itwas not the house to which I had been conducted. The latter had been abig, substantial mansion with a spacious portico supported by four hugepillars, whereas this was a small, old-fashioned house of perhaps tenrooms.

  Nevertheless, I walked up the garden path and rang the bell. My summonswas answered by a neat maid, who called her mistress, an elderly lady,and the latter declared that she had lived there five years and hadnever heard the name of Wynd.

  "Have you ever let your house furnished?" I inquired.

  "Never," She responded. "But the name is somewhat uncommon, and youought to have no difficulty in finding the address."

  "I hope sincerely that I shall," I answered, and, apologising fordisturbing her, went down the steps, feeling that my mysterious wife hadpurposely given a false address in order to place any inquirer on awrong scent.

  Along to the corner of Kensington Road I strolled slowly, debating in mymind the best course to pursue. I turned into a public-house at thecorner, and asked to see a London Directory, which I searched eagerly.But there was no such name as Wynd among the residents, neither could Ifind it among those of people living in the suburbs.

  I called upon the Vicar of St Ann's, Wilton Place, and saw the registerI 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 g
iven by the Major at Doctors' Commons, thenin all probability the surname was likewise false.

  Fatigued, hungry, and dusty, I at last found myself once again in RowanRoad before the door of Bob Raymond's house, and entered with mylatch-key.

  Old Mrs Bishop came forward excitedly to meet me.

  "Oh, Doctor," she cried, "wherever had you been all this week? I feltcertain that something had happened to you, and yesterday I got mydaughter to write a line to Dr Raymond. But I'm so glad you are backagain sir. It's given my daughter and me such a fright. We imaginedall sorts of horrible things like those we read of in _Lloyd's_ and_Reynolds'_."

  "Well, I'm back again,