tranger.

Henry replied in the affirmative, declaring that he unfortunately could
not overhear the subject under discussion. But he believed the pair had
quarrelled.

"And where has Mr. Fetherston gone?" asked his keen-eyed questioner.

"He is, I believe, the guest of Major Tredennick, who lives on the other
side of Perthshire at Invermay on Loch Earn."

"And the young lady goes back to Hill Street with her stepfather, eh?"

"On Wednesday."

"Good!" was the stranger's reply. Then, thanking the head waiter for the
information in a sharp, businesslike voice, and handing him five
shillings, he took train back from Monifieth to Dundee, and went direct
to the chief post-office.

From there he dispatched a carefully constructed cipher telegram to an
address in the Boulevard Anspach, in Brussels, afterwards lighting an
excellent cigar and strolling along the busy street with an air of
supreme self-satisfaction.

"If this man, Fetherston, has discovered the truth, as I fear he has
done," the hard-faced man muttered to himself, "then by his action to-day
he has sealed his own doom!--and Enid Orlebar herself will silence him!"

CHAPTER III

INTRODUCES DOCTOR WEIRMARSH

THREE days had elapsed.

In the dingy back room of a dull, drab house in the Vauxhall Bridge Road,
close to Victoria Station in London, the narrow-eyed man who had so
closely questioned old Henry at the Panmure Hotel, sat at an old mahogany
writing-table reading a long letter written upon thin foreign notepaper.

The incandescent gas-lamp shed a cold glare across the room. On one side
of the smoke-grimed apartment was a shabby leather couch, on the other
side a long nest of drawers, while beside the fireplace was an expanding
gas-bracket placed in such a position that it could be used to examine
anyone seated in the big arm-chair. Pervading the dingy apartment was a
faint smell of carbolic, for it was a consulting-room, and the man so
intent upon the letter was Dr. Weirmarsh, the hard-working practitioner
so well known among the lower classes in Pimlico.

Those who pass along the Vauxhall Bridge Road know well that house with
its curtains yellow with smoke--the one which stands back behind a small
strip of smoke-begrimed garden. Over the gate is a red lamp, and upon the
railings a brass plate with the name: "Mr. Weirmarsh, Surgeon."

About three years previously he had bought the practice from old Dr.
Bland, but he lived alone, a silent an