“He says that he is always abroad,” I remarked. “But I’m confident that we have met somewhere in England.”
“He did not apparently recognise you, when I introduced you.”
“No. He didn’t wish to. The circumstances of our meeting were not such as to leave behind any pleasant recollections.”
“But you told me that you knew the identity of my husband,” she said, after a pause, as we strolled together in the shadow of the great oaks. “Were you really serious?”
“No, I was not serious,” I answered quickly, for the unexpected arrival of this man who called himself Ashwicke, and whose name appeared in the London Directory as occupier of the house in Queen’s-gate Gardens, caused me to hesitate to tell her the truth. The manner in which they had met made it quite plain that some secret understanding existed between them. It seemed possible that this man had actually occupied the house before the present owner, Mrs Stentiford.
“Then why did you say such a thing?” she asked, in a tone of reproach. “My position is no matter for joking.”
“Certainly not,” I hastened to declare. “Believe me, Miss Wynd, that you have all my sympathy. You are unfortunately unique as one who is married and yet without knowledge either of her husband or his name.”
“Yes,” she sighed, a dark shadow of despair crossing her handsome face. “There is a shadow of evil ever upon me, just as puzzling and mysterious as the chill touch of that unseen influence which at intervals strikes both of us.”
“And the presence of this man adds to your uneasiness. Is that not so?”
She nodded, but no word escaped her.