“Certainly,” I answered, still gazing at her like a man in a dream.
She had been introduced to me as Feo Ashwicke, the cousin of this rather curious woman, Lady Pierrepoint-Lane. Yet there could be no doubt that she was actually Beryl Wynd, the sweet-faced girl whom I had seen lying dead in that house of mystery eight days before.
Neither our introduction nor the mention of my name had in the least disconcerted her. She remained perfectly frank and natural, betraying not the slightest surprise. Could it be possible that she was not aware of her marriage with me?
I looked straight into her clear blue eyes. Neither appeared affected. Nevertheless, had I not, on that fatal night, seen the strange contraction of the pupil, which had rendered one—the left eye—sightless and so strange-looking?
She was talking to her cousin, and thus I had opportunity of regarding her critically. Her hands were gloved, therefore I could not see whether she still wore the ring I had placed upon her finger. Still, if she were really Feo Ashwicke, what motive had she in masquerading as the daughter of that crafty scoundrel Wyndham Wynd?
I longed to speak plainly to her and seek some explanation, yet at that moment it was impossible. Her frank and open manner rendered it quite evident that to her I was an utter stranger.
It was this failure on her part to recognise my name that aroused within my mind a doubt whether, after all, her personal appearance only bore a very striking resemblance to that of my mysterious wife.
“Nora always forgets her engagements,” she laughed, turning to me. “This morning we’ve got quite a host of places to go to and things to buy, for we leave town again to-night. After breakfast we arranged to go out together at eleven, and she’s actually forgotten all about it!”
“Short memories are sometimes useful,” I remarked with a smile.
“I hope that is not meant for sarcasm, Doctor,” protested the baronet’s wife.