"She was good-looking, elegantly dressed, and about middle height, if I remember aright." "And her hair?" "It was of a colour rather unusual," answered the man, peering at me through his spectacles. "A kind of golden-brown." The description was exact. Beryl had been there, and of her own accord applied 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. What kind 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 to that of Tattersett. The truth seemed plain: the Major had posed as Beryl's father, and had given his consent to the marriage. The registry official, a little dry-as-dust individual who wore steel-rimmed spectacles poised far down his thin nose, endeavoured to learn who and what I was; but I merely replied that I was making inquiries on behalf of certain friends of the lady, and having satisfied myself 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 by the underground railway to Earl's Court, and experienced but little difficulty in discovering Number 46. It stood on the right, between Park Terrace and Scarsdale Villas; but at a single glance I saw that it was not the house to which I had been conducted. The latter had been a big, substantial mansion with a spacious portico supported by four huge pillars, whereas this was a small, old-fashioned house of perhaps ten rooms. Nevertheless, I walked up the garden path and rang the bell. My summons was answered by a neat maid, who called her mistress, an elderly lady, and the latter declared that she had lived there five years and had never heard the name of Wynd. "Have you ever let your house furnished?" I inquired. "Never," She responded. "But the name is somewhat uncommon, and you ought to have no difficulty in finding the address." "I hope sincerely that I shall," I answered, and, apologising for disturbing her, went down the steps, feeling that my mysterious wife had purposely given a false address in order to place any inquirer on a wrong scent. Along to the corner of Kensington Road I strolled slowly, debating in my mind the best course to pursue. I turned into a public-house at the corner, and asked to see a London Directory, which I searched eagerly. But there was no such name as Wynd among the residents, neither could I find it among those of people living in the suburbs. I called upon the Vicar of St Ann's, Wilton Place, and saw the register I had signed, but the officiating clergyman had been a friend of Wynd's, and he did not know his address.