“Did they say who the officer was? or what was his offence?”
“He was a major in the Guards, they said.”
“You didn’t hear his name?”
“No, I’ve never heard her name. Everybody here knows her as Miss Beryl. But it would be easy enough to find out.” And, rising, he leant forward into the tap-room, where a rural postman was sitting, hot and dusty, drinking ale from a pewter, and shouted, “I say, Allen, what’s the name of Mr Chetwode’s young lady?”
“The young lady that’s so often at the Park? Why, Miss Beryl Wynd.”
I sat motionless for some moments. The truth seemed plain—that she had allowed herself to be introduced to me at Gloucester Square under an alias. For what reason, I wondered?
She was undoubtedly in love with this young lieutenant of Hussars. If so, then she would seek to preserve the secret of her marriage, and even repudiate it if necessary. The rumours of her being the daughter of a disgraced officer was another curious feature. It almost appeared as if there were some truth underlying it.
“You hear what the postman says, sir,” observed the landlord, turning again to me. “He knows, because he delivers the letters at the Park. Her name is Wynd—funny name, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I answered mechanically, for the discovery that this young Chetwode was the accepted suitor of my love was a staggering blow. What could I do? How should I act?
She was my wife by law—mine.