"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. "Is she often here?" I asked at last, when I found voice again. I was so upset by this statement, that with difficulty I remained calm. "Oh yes, very often; especially now that Mr Cyril is at the barracks. They ride out together every morning, and are very often about in the town in the afternoon. You'll no doubt see them." "Ah," I said, with the object of misleading my garrulous informant, "it can't be the lady I mean, as her name is not Beryl." "The description is very much like her," he observed, knocking the ash from his cigar. "Is there any talk of young Chetwode marrying?" I inquired. "Well, yes, there are rumours of course," he answered. "Some say that the Colonel is against it, while others say that Mrs Chetwode is jealous of her stepson, so one doesn't know exactly what to believe." "I suppose you hear a lot of gossip about them, eh?" "Oh, a lot. Much, too, that ain't true," he laughed. "Why, somebody said once that Miss Beryl was the daughter of an officer who got sent to penal servitude." "Who said that?" I said, at once pricking up my ears. Was it not Major Tattersett who had accompanied her to the registry at Doctors' Commons, and who had given me that cigarette? "Oh, it was a story that got about." "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.