“She’s tall, blue-eyed, with golden-brown hair. Very pretty, and always very smartly dressed.”
“Yes; she wears a big black hat, and very often a drab-coloured dress. When she smiles she shows her teeth very prettily,” he said.
“That’s her, no doubt.”
“Well,” he said, “her description is exact. She’s Mr Cyril’s young lady.”
“What?” I cried, starting up in surprise.
“When she’s down here she’s always about with the Colonel’s son, and everybody says they’re engaged,” he went on. “The servants have told me that they’re a most devoted couple.”
“But is that lady the same one that I mean?” I inquired dubiously.
“I don’t know her surname, but her Christian name is Miss Beryl.”
“Beryl?” I gasped. Could this be the actual truth, that she was engaged to young Chetwode?
Beryl! Then she was evidently known here by the name in which she had married me—Beryl Wynd.