Dr. Diplock, the coroner, had fixed the inquest for eleven o'clock on the morrow; therefore I assisted Dr. Farmer, of Kew, the police surgeon, to make the post-mortem.

We made the examination in the afternoon, before the light faded, and if the circumstances of the crime were mysterious, the means by which the unfortunate man was murdered were, we found, doubly so.

Outwardly, the wound was an ordinary one, one inch in breadth, inflicted by a blow delivered from left to right. The weapon had entered between the fourth and fifth ribs, and the heart had been completely transfixed by some sharp cutting instrument. The injuries we discovered within, however, increased the mystery ten-fold, for we found two extraordinary lateral incisions, which almost completely divided the heart from side to side, the only remaining attachment of the upper portion to the lower being a small portion of the anterior wall of the heart behind the sternum.

Such a wound was absolutely beyond explanation.

The instrument with which the crime had been committed by striking between the ribs had penetrated to the heart with an unerring precision, making a terrible wound eight times the size within, as compared with the exterior puncture. And yet the weapon had been withdrawn, and was missing!

For fully an hour we measured and discussed the strange discovery, hoping all the time that Sir Bernard would arrive. The knife which the man Short confessed he had taken down in self-defence we compared with the exterior wound and found, as we anticipated, that just such a wound could be caused by it. But the fact that the exterior cut was cleanly done, while the internal injuries were jagged and the tissues torn in a most terrible manner, caused a doubt to arise whether the Indian knife, which was double-edged, had actually been used. To be absolutely clear upon this point it would be necessary to examine it microscopically, for the corpuscles of human blood are easily distinguished beneath the lens.

We were about to conclude our examination in despair, utterly unable to account for the extraordinary wound, when the door opened and Sir Bernard entered.

He looked upon the body of his old friend, not a pleasing spectacle indeed, and then grasped my hand without a word.

"I read the evening paper on my way up," he said at last in a voice trembling with emotion. "The affair seems very mysterious. Poor Courtenay! Poor fellow!"

"It is sad—very sad," I remarked. "We have just concluded the post-mortem;" and then I introduced the police surgeon to the man whose name was a household word throughout the medical profession.

I showed my chief the wound, explained its extraordinary features, and asked his opinion. He removed his coat, turned up his shirt-cuffs, adjusted his big spectacles, and, bending beside the board upon which the body lay, made a long and careful inspection of the injury.

"Extraordinary!" he ejaculated. "I've never known of such a wound before. One would almost suspect an explosive bullet, if it were not for the clean incised wound on the exterior. The ribs seem grazed, yet the manner in which such a hurt has been inflicted is utterly unaccountable."

"We have been unable to solve the enigma," Dr. Farmer observed. "I was an army surgeon before I entered private practice, but I have never seen a similar case."

"Nor have I," responded Sir Bernard. "It is most puzzling."

"Do you think that this knife could have been used?" I asked, handing my chief the weapon.

He looked at it, raised it in his hand as though to strike, felt its edge, and then shook his head, saying: "No, I think not. The instrument used was only sharp on one edge. This has both edges sharpened."

It was a point we had overlooked, but at once we agreed with him, and abandoned our half-formed theory that the Indian dagger had caused the wound.

With Sir Bernard we made an examination of the tongue and other organs, in order to ascertain the progress of the disease from which the deceased had been suffering, but a detailed account of our discoveries can have no interest for the lay reader.

In a word, our conclusions were that the murdered man could easily have lived another year or more. The disease was not so advanced as we had believed. Sir Bernard had a patient to see in Grosvenor Square; therefore he left at about four o'clock, regretting that he had not time to call round at the neighbour's and express his sympathy with the widow.

"Give her all my sympathies, poor young lady," he said to me. "And tell her that I will call upon her to-morrow." Then, after promising to attend the inquest and give evidence regarding the post-mortem, he shook hands with us both and left.

At eight o'clock that evening I was back in my own rooms in Harley Place, eating my dinner alone, when Ambler Jevons entered.

He was not as cheery as usual. He did not exclaim, as was his habit, "Well, my boy, how goes it? Whom have you killed to-day?" or some such grim pleasantry.

On the contrary, he came in with scarcely a word, threw his hat upon a side table, and sank into his usual arm chair with scarcely a word, save the question uttered in almost a growl:

"May I smoke?"

"Of course," I said, continuing my meal. "Where have you been?"

"I left while you were cutting up the body," he said. "I've been about a lot since then, and I'm a bit tired."

"You look it. Have a drink?"

"No," he responded, shaking his head. "I don't drink when I'm bothered. This case is an absolute mystery." And striking a match he lit his foul pipe and puffed away vigorously, staring straight into the fire the while.

"Well," I asked, after a long silence. "What's your opinion now?"

"I've none," he answered, gloomily. "What's yours?"

"Mine is that the mystery increases hourly."

"What did you find at the cutting-up?"

In a few words I explained the unaccountable nature of the wound, drawing for him a rough diagram on the back of an old envelope, which I tossed over to where he sat.

He looked at it for a long time without speaking, then observed:

"H'm! Just as I thought. The police theory regarding that fellow Short and the knife is all a confounded myth. Depend upon it, Boyd, old chap, that gentleman is no fool. He's tricked Thorpe finely—and with a motive, too."

"What motive do you suspect?" I inquired, eagerly, for this was an entirely fresh theory.

"One that you'd call absurd if I were to tell it to you now. I'll explain later on, when my suspicions are confirmed—as I feel sure they will be before long."

"You're mysterious, Ambler," I said, surprised. "Why?"

"I have a reason, my dear chap," was all the reply he vouchsafed. Then he puffed again vigorously at his pipe, and filled the room with clouds of choking smoke of a not particularly good brand of tobacco.



CHAPTER X.

WHICH PUZZLES THE DOCTORS.

At the inquest held in the big upstair room of the Star and Garter Hotel at Kew Bridge there was a crowded attendance. By this time the public excitement had risen to fever-heat. It had by some unaccountable means leaked out that at the post-mortem we had been puzzled; therefore the mystery was much increased, and the papers that morning without exception gave prominence to the startling affair.

The coroner, seated at the table at the head of the room, took the usual formal evidence of identification, writing down the depositions upon separate sheets of blue foolscap.

Samuel Short was the first witness of importance, and those in the room listened breathlessly to the story of how his alarum clock had awakened him at two o'clock; how he had risen as usual and gone to his master's room, only to discover him dead.

"You noticed no sign of a struggle?" inquired the coroner, looking sharply up at the witness.

"None, sir. My master was lying on his side, and except for the stain of blood which attracted my attention it looked as though he had died in his sleep."

"And what did you do?"

"I raised the alarm," answered Short; and then he went on to describe how he switched on the electric light, rushed downstairs, seized the knife hanging in the hall, opened one of the back doors and rushed outside.

"And why did you do that, pray?" asked the coroner, looking at him fixedly.

"I thought that someone might be lurking in the garden," the man responded, a trifle lamely.

The solicitor of Mrs. Courtenay's family, to whom she had sent asking him to be present on her behalf, rose at this juncture and addressing the coroner, said:

"I should like to put a question to the witness, sir. I represent the deceased's family."

"As you wish," replied the coroner. "But do you consider such a course wise at this stage of the inquiry? There must be an adjournment."

He understood the coroner's objection and, acquiescing, sat down.

Nurse Kate and the cook were called, and afterwards Ethelwynn, who, dressed in black and wearing a veil, looked pale and fragile as she drew off her glove in order to take the oath.

As she stood there our eyes met for an instant; then she turned towards her questioner, bracing herself for the ordeal.

"When did you last see the deceased alive?" asked the coroner, after the usual formal inquiry as to her name and connection with the family.

"At ten o'clock in the evening. Dr. Boyd visited him, and found him much better. After the doctor had gone I went upstairs and found the nurse with him, giving him his medicine. He was still sitting before the fire."

"Was he in his usual spirits?"

"Quite."

"What was the character of your conversation with him? I understand that Mrs. Courtenay, your sister, was out at the time. Did he remark upon her absence?"

"Yes. He said it was a wet night, and he hoped she would not take cold, for she was so careless of herself."

The coroner bent to his paper and wrote down her reply.

"And you did not see him alive again."

"No."

"You entered the room after he was dead, I presume?"

"No. I—I hadn't the courage," she faltered. "They told me that he was dead—that he had been stabbed to the heart."

Again the coroner bent to his writing. What, I wondered, would those present think if I produced the little piece of stained chenille which I kept wrapped in tissue paper and hidden in my fusee-box?

To them it, of course, seemed quite natural that a delicate woman should hesitate to view a murdered man. But if they knew of my discovery they would detect that she was an admirable actress—that her horror of the dead was feigned, and that she was not telling the truth. I, who knew her countenance so well, saw even through her veil how agitated she was, and with what desperate resolve she was concealing the awful anxiety consuming her.

"One witness has told us that the deceased was very much afraid of burglars," observed the coroner. "Had he ever spoken to you on the subject?"

"Often. At his country house some years ago a burglary was committed, and one of the burglars fired at him but missed. I think that unnerved him, for he always kept a loaded revolver in the drawer of a table beside his bed. In addition to this he had electrical contrivances attached to the windows, so as to ring an alarm."

"But it appears they did not ring," said the coroner, quickly.

"They were out of order, the servants tell me. The bells had been silent for a fortnight or so."

"It seems probable, then, that the murderer knew of that," remarked Dr. Diplock, again writing with his scratchy quill. Turning to the solicitor, he asked, "Have you any questions to put to the witness?"

"None," was the response.

And then the woman whom I had loved so fervently and well, turned and re-seated herself. She glanced across at me. Did she read my thoughts?

Her glance was a glance of triumph.

Medical evidence was next taken, Sir Bernard Eyton being the first witness. He gave his opinion in his habitual sharp, snappy voice, terse and to the point.

In technical language he explained the disease from which his patient had been suffering, and then proceeded to describe the result of the post-mortem, how the wound inside was eight times larger than the exterior incision.

"That seems very remarkable!" exclaimed the coroner, himself a surgeon of no mean repute, laying down his pen and regarding the physician with interest suddenly aroused. "Have you ever seen a similar wound in your experience, Sir Bernard?"

"Never!" was the reply. "My friends, Doctor Boyd and Doctor Farmer, were with me, and we are agreed that it is utterly impossible that the cardiac injuries I have described could have been caused by the external wound."

"Then how were they caused?" asked the coroner.

"I cannot tell."

There was no cross-examination. I followed, merely corroborating what my chief had said. Then, after the police surgeon had given his evidence, Dr. Diplock turned to the twelve Kew tradesmen who had been "summoned and sworn" as jurymen, and addressing them said:

"I think, gentlemen, you have heard sufficient to show you that this is a more than usually serious case. There are certain elements both extraordinary and mysterious, and that being so I would suggest an adjournment, in order that the police should be enabled to make further enquiries into the matter. The deceased was a gentleman whose philanthropy was probably well known to you all, and we must all therefore regret that he should have come to such a sudden and tragic end. You may, of course, come to a verdict to-day if you wish, but I would strongly urge an adjournment—until, say, this day week."

The jury conferred for a few moments, and after some whispering the foreman, a grocer at Kew Bridge, announced that his fellow jurymen acquiesced in the coroner's suggestion, and the public rose and slowly left, more puzzled than ever.

Ambler Jevons had been present, sitting at the back of the room, and in order to avoid the others we lunched together at an obscure public-house in Brentford, on the opposite side of the Thames to Kew Gardens. It was the only place we could discover, save the hotel where the inquest had been held, and we had no desire to be interrupted, for during the inquiry he had passed me a scrap of paper upon which he had written an earnest request to see me alone afterwards.

Therefore when I had put Ethelwynn into a cab, and had bade farewell to Sir Bernard and received certain private instructions from him, we walked together into the narrow, rather dirty High Street of Brentford, the county town of Middlesex.

The inn we entered was close to a soap works, the odour from which was not conducive to a good appetite, but we obtained a room to ourselves and ate our meal of cold beef almost in silence.

"I was up early this morning," Ambler observed at last. "I was at Kew at eight o'clock."

"Why?"

"In the night an idea struck me, and when such ideas occur I always seek to put them promptly into action."

"What was the idea?" I asked.

"I thought about that safe in the old man's bedroom," he replied, laying down his knife and fork and looking at me.

"What about it? There's surely nothing extraordinary in a man having a safe in his room?"

"No. But there's something extraordinary in the key of that safe being missing," he said. "Thorpe has apparently overlooked the point; therefore this morning I went down to Kew, and finding only a constable in charge, I made a thorough search through the place. In the dead man's room I naturally expected to find it, and after nearly a couple of hours searching in every nook and every crack I succeeded. It was hidden in the mould of a small pot-fern, standing in the corridor outside the room."

"You examined the safe, then?"

"No, I didn't. There might be money and valuables within, and I had no right to open it without the presence of a witness. I've waited for you to accompany me. We'll go there after luncheon and examine its contents."

"But the executors might have something to say regarding such an action," I remarked.

"Executors be hanged! I saw them this morning, a couple of dry-as-dust old fossils—city men, I believe, who only think of house property and dividends. Our duty is to solve this mystery. The executors can have their turn, old chap, when we've finished. At present they haven't the key, or any notion where it is. One of them mentioned it, and said he supposed it was in the widow's possession."

"Well," I remarked, "I must say that I don't half like the idea of turning out a safe without the presence of the executors."

"Police enquiries come before executors' inventories," he replied. "They'll get their innings all in good time. The house is, at present, in the occupation of the police, and nobody therefore can disturb us."

"Have you told Thorpe?"

"No. He's gone up to Scotland Yard to make his report. He'll probably be down again this afternoon. Let's finish, and take the ferry across."

Thus persuaded I drained my ale, and together we went down to the ferry, landing at Kew Gardens, and crossing them until we emerged by the Unicorn Gate, almost opposite the house.

There were loiterers still outside, men, women, and children, who lounged in the vicinity, staring blankly up at the drawn blinds. A constable in uniform admitted us. He had his lunch, a pot of beer and some bread and cheese which his wife had probably brought him, on the dining-room table, and we had disturbed him with his mouth full.

He was the same man whom Ambler Jevons had seen in the morning, and as we entered he saluted, saying:

"Inspector Thorpe has left a message for you, sir. He'll be back from the Yard about half-past three, and would very much like to see you."

"Do you know why he wants to see me?"

"It appears, sir, that one of the witnesses who gave evidence this morning is missing."

"Missing!" he cried, pricking up his ears. "Who's missing?"

"The manservant, sir. My sergeant told me an hour ago that as soon as the man had given evidence he went out, and was seen hurrying towards Gunnersbury Station. They believe he's absconded."

I exchanged significant glances with my companion, but neither of us uttered a word. Ambler gave vent to his habitual grunt of dissatisfaction, and then led the way upstairs.

The body had been removed from the room in which it had been found, and the bed was dismantled. When inside the apartment, he turned to me calmly, saying:

"There seems something in Thorpe's theory regarding that fellow Short, after all."

"If he has really absconded, it is an admission of guilt," I remarked.

"Most certainly," he replied. "It's a suspicious circumstance, in any case, that he did not remain until the conclusion of the inquiry."

We pulled the chest of drawers, a beautiful piece of old Sheraton, away from the door of the safe, and before placing the key in the lock my companion examined the exterior minutely. The key was partly rusted, and appeared as though it had not been used for many months.

Could it be that the assassin was in search of that key and had been unsuccessful?

He showed me the artful manner in which it had been concealed. The small hardy fern had been rooted up and stuck back again heedlessly into its pot. Certainly no one would ever have thought to search for a safe-key there. The dampness of the mould had caused the rust, hence before we could open the iron door we were compelled to oil the key with some brilliantine which was discovered on the dead man's dressing table.

The interior, we found, was a kind of small strong-room—built of fire-brick, and lined with steel. It was filled with papers of all kinds neatly arranged.

We drew up a table, and the first packet my friend handed out was a substantial one of five pound notes, secured by an elastic band, beneath which was a slip on which the amount was pencilled. Securities of various sorts followed, and then large packets of parchment deeds which, on examination, we found related to his Devonshire property and his farms in Canada.

"Here's something!" cried Ambler at length, tossing across to me a small packet methodically tied with pink tape. "The old boy's love-letters—by the look of them."

I undid the loop eagerly, and opened the first letter. It was in a feminine hand, and proved a curious, almost unintelligible communication.

I glanced at the signature. My heart ceased its beating, and a sudden cry involuntarily escaped me, although next moment I saw that by it I had betrayed myself, for Ambler Jevons sprang to my side in an instant.

But next instant I covered the signature with my hand, grasped the packet swift as thought, and turned upon him defiantly, without uttering a word.



CHAPTER XI.

CONCERNS MY PRIVATE AFFAIRS.

"What have you found there?" inquired Ambler Jevons, quickly interested, and yet surprised at my determination to conceal it from him.

"Something that concerns me," I replied briefly.

"Concerns you?" he ejaculated. "I don't understand. How can anything among the old man's private papers concern you?"

"This concerns me personally," I answered. "Surely that is sufficient explanation."

"No," my friend said. "Forgive me, Ralph, for speaking quite plainly, but in this affair we are both working towards the same end—namely, to elucidate the mystery. We cannot hope for success if you are bent upon concealing your discoveries from me."

"This is a private affair of my own," I declared doggedly. "What I have found only concerns myself."

He shrugged his shoulders with an air of distinct dissatisfaction.

"Even if it is a purely private matter we are surely good friends enough to be cognisant of one another's secrets," he remarked.

"Of course," I replied dubiously. "But only up to a certain point."

"Then, in other words, you imply that you can't trust me?"

"I can trust you, Ambler," I answered calmly. "We are the best of friends, and I hope we shall always be so. Will you not forgive me for refusing to show you these letters?"

"I only ask you one question. Have they anything to do with the matter we are investigating?"

I hesitated. With his quick perception he saw that a lie was not ready upon my lips.

"They have. Your silence tells me so. In that case it is your duty to show me them," he said, quietly.

I protested again, but he overwhelmed my arguments. In common fairness to him I ought not, I knew, keep back the truth. And yet it was the greatest and most terrible blow that had ever fallen upon me. He saw that I was crushed and stammering, and he stood by me wondering.

"Forgive me, Ambler," I urged again. "When you have read this letter you will fully understand why I have endeavoured to conceal it from you; why, if you were not present here at this moment, I would burn them all and not leave a trace behind."

Then I handed it to him.

He took it eagerly, skimmed it through, and started just as I had started when he saw the signature. Upon his face was a blank expression, and he returned it to me without a word.

"Well?" I asked. "What is your opinion?"

"My opinion is the same as your own, Ralph, old fellow," he answered slowly, looking me straight in the face. "It is amazing—startling—tragic."

"You think, then, that the motive of the crime was jealousy?"

"The letter makes it quite plain," he answered huskily. "Give me the others. Let me examine them. I know how severe this blow must be to you, old fellow," he added, sympathetically.

"Yes, it has staggered me," I stammered. "I'm utterly dumfounded by the unexpected revelation!" and I handed him the packet of correspondence, which he placed upon the table, and, seating himself, commenced eagerly to examine letter after letter.

While he was thus engaged I took up the first letter, and read it through—right to the bitter end.

It was apparently the last of a long correspondence, for all the letters were arranged chronologically, and this was the last of the packet. Written from Neneford Manor, Northamptonshire, and vaguely dated "Wednesday," as is a woman's habit, it was addressed to Mr. Courtenay, and ran as follows:—

"Words cannot express my contempt for a man who breaks his word as easily as you break yours. A year ago, when you were my father's guest, you told me that you loved me, and urged me to marry you. At first I laughed at your proposal; then when I found you really serious, I pointed out the difference of our ages. You, in return, declared that you loved me with all the ardour of a young man; that I was your ideal; and you promised, by all you held most sacred, that if I consented I should never regret. I believed you, and believed the false words of feigned devotion which you wrote to me later under seal of strictest secrecy. You went to Cairo, and none knew of our secret—the secret that you intended to make me your wife. And how have you kept your promise? To-day my father has informed me that you are to marry Mary! Imagine the blow to me! My father expects me to rejoice, little dreaming how I have been fooled; how lightly you have treated a woman's affections and aspirations. Some there are who, finding themselves in my position, would place in Mary's hands the packet of your correspondence which is before me as I write, and thus open her eyes to the fact that she is but the dupe of a man devoid of honour. Shall I do so? No. Rest assured that I shall not. If my sister is happy, let her remain so. My vendetta lies not in that direction. The fire of hatred may be stifled, but it can never be quenched. We shall be quits some day, and you will regret bitterly that you have broken your word so lightly. My revenge—the vengeance of a jealous woman—will fall upon you at a moment and in a manner you will little dream of. I return you your letters, as you may not care for them to fall into other hands, and from to-day I shall never again refer to what has passed. I am young, and may still obtain an upright and honourable man as husband. You are old, and are tottering slowly to your doom. Farewell.

"ETHELWYNN MIVART."

The letter fully explained a circumstance of which I had been entirely ignorant, namely, that the woman I had loved had actually been engaged to old Mr. Courtenay before her sister had married him. Its tenor showed how intensely antagonistic she was towards the man who had fooled her, and in the concluding sentence there was a distinct if covert threat—a threat of bitter revenge.

She had returned the old man's letters apparently in order to show that in her hand she held a further and more powerful weapon; she had not sought to break off his marriage with Mary, but had rather stood by, swallowed her anger, and calmly calculated upon a fierce vendetta at a moment when he would least expect it.

Truly those startling words spoken by Sir Bernard had been full of truth. I remembered them now, and discerned his meaning. He was at least an honest upright man who, although sometimes a trifle eccentric, had my interests deeply at heart. In the progress I had made in my profession I owed much to him, and even in my private affairs he had sought to guide me, although I had, alas! disregarded his repeated warnings.

I took up one after another of the letters my friend had examined, and found them to be the correspondence of a woman who was either angling after a wealthy husband, or who loved him with all the strength of her affection. Some of the communications were full of passion, and betrayed that poetry of soul that was innate in her. The letters were dated from Neneford, from Oban, and from various Mediterranean ports, where she had gone yachting with her uncle, Sir Thomas Heaton, the great Lancashire coal-owner. Sometimes she addressed him as "Dearest," at others as "Beloved," usually signing herself "Your Own." So full were they of the ardent passion characteristic of her that they held me in amazement. It was passion developed under its most profound and serious aspects; they showed the calm and thoughtful, not the brilliant side of intellect.

In Ethelwynn's character the passionate and the imaginative were blended equally and in the highest conceivable degree as combined with delicate female nature. Those letters, although written to a man in whose heart romance must long ago have been dead, showed how complex was her character, how fervent, enthusiastic and self-forgetting her love. At first I believed that those passionate outpourings were merely designed to captivate the old gentleman for his money; but when I read on I saw how intense her passion became towards the end, and how the culmination of it all was that wild reproachful missive written when the crushing blow fell so suddenly upon her.

Ethelwynn was a woman of extraordinary character, full of picturesque charm and glowing romance. To be tremblingly alive to the gentle impressions, and yet be able to preserve, when the prosecution of a design requires it, an immovable heart, amidst even the most imperious causes of subduing emotion, is perhaps not an impossible constitution of mind, but it is the utmost and rarest endowment of humanity. I knew her as a woman of highest mental powers touched with a melancholy sweetness. I was now aware of the cause of that melancholy.

Yet it was apparent that the serious and energetic part of her character was founded on deep passion, for after her sister's marriage with the man she had herself loved and had threatened, she had actually come there beneath their roof, and lived as her sister's companion, stifling all the hatred that had entered her heart, and preserving an outward calm that had no doubt entirely disarmed him.

Such a circumstance was extraordinary. To me, as to Ambler Jevons who knew her well, it seemed almost inconceivable that old Mr. Courtenay should allow her to live there after receiving such a wild communication as that final letter. Especially curious, too, that Mary had never suspected or discovered her sister's jealousy. Yet so skilfully had Ethelwynn concealed her intention of revenge that both husband and wife had been entirely deceived.

Love, considered under its poetical aspect, is the union of passion and imagination. I had foolishly believed that this calm, sweet-voiced woman had loved me, but those letters made it plain that I had been utterly fooled. "Le mystere de l'existence," said Madame de Stael to her daughter, "c'est la rapport de nos erreurs avec nos peines."

And although there was in her, in her character, and in her terrible situation, a concentration of all the interests that belong to humanity, she was nevertheless a murderess.

"The truth is here," remarked my friend, laying his hand upon the heap of tender correspondence which had been brought to such an abrupt conclusion by the letter I have printed in its entirety. "It is a strange, romantic story, to say the least."

"Then you really believe that she is guilty?" I exclaimed, hoarsely.

He shrugged his shoulders significantly, but no word escaped his lips.

In the silence that fell between us, I glanced at him. His chin was sunk upon his breast, his brows knit, his thin fingers toying idly with the plain gold ring.

"Well?" I managed to exclaim at last. "What shall we do?"

"Do?" he echoed. "What can we do, my dear fellow? That woman's future is in your hands."

"Why in mine?" I asked. "In yours also, surely?"

"No," he answered resolutely, taking my hand and grasping it warmly. "No, Ralph; I know—I can see how you are suffering. You believed her to be a pure and honest woman—one above the common run—a woman fit for helpmate and wife. Well, I, too, must confess myself very much misled. I believed her to be all that you imagined; indeed, if her face be any criterion, she is utterly unspoiled by the world and its wickedness. In my careful studies in physiognomy I have found that very seldom does a perfect face like hers cover an evil heart. Hence, I confess, that this discovery has amazed me quite as much as it has you. I somehow feel——"

"I don't believe it!" I cried, interrupting him. "I don't believe, Ambler, that she murdered him—I can't believe it. Her's is not the face of a murderess."

"Faces sometimes deceive," he said quietly. "Recollect that a clever woman can give a truthful appearance to a lie where a man utterly fails."

"I know—I know. But even with this circumstantial proof I can't and won't believe it."

"Please yourself, my dear fellow," he answered. "I know it is hard to believe ill of a woman whom one loves so devotedly as you've loved Ethelwynn. But be brave, bear up, and face the situation like a man."

"I am facing it," I said resolutely. "I will face it by refusing to believe that she killed him. The letters are plain enough. She was engaged secretly to old Courtenay, who threw her over in favour of her sister. But is there anything so very extraordinary in that? One hears of such things very often."

"But the final letter?"

"It bears evidence of being written in the first moments of wild anger on realising that she had been abandoned in favour of Mary. Probably she has by this time quite forgotten the words she wrote. And in any case the fact of her living beneath the same roof, supervising the household, and attending to the sick man during Mary's absence, entirely negatives any idea of revenge."

Jevons smiled dubiously, and I myself knew that my argument was not altogether logical.

"Well?" I continued. "And is not that your opinion?"

"No. It is not," he replied, bluntly.

"Then what is to be done?" I asked, after a pause.

"The matter rests entirely with you, Ralph," he replied. "I know what I should do in a similar case."

"What would you do? Advise me," I urged eagerly.

"I should take the whole of the correspondence, just as it is, place it in the grate there, and burn it," he said.

I was not prepared for such a suggestion. A similar idea had occurred to me, but I feared to suggest to him such a mode of defeating the ends of justice.

"But if I do that will you give me a vow of secrecy?" I asked, quickly. "Recollect that such a step is a serious offence against the law."

"When I pass out of this room I shall have no further recollection of ever having seen any letters," he answered, again giving me his hand. "In this matter my desire is only to help you. If, as you believe, Ethelwynn is innocent, then no harm can be done in destroying the letters, whereas if she is actually the assassin she must, sooner or later, betray her guilt. A woman may be clever, but she can never successfully cover the crime of murder."

"Then you are willing that I, as finder of those letters, shall burn them? And further, that no word shall pass regarding this discovery?"

"Most willing," he replied. "Come," he added, commencing to gather them together. "Let us lose no time, or perhaps the constable on duty below or one of the plain-clothes men may come prying in here."

Then at his direction and with his assistance I willingly tore up each letter in small pieces, placed the whole in the grate where dead cinders still remained, and with a vesta set a light to them. For a few moments they blazed fiercely up the chimney, then died out, leaving only black tinder.

"We must make a feint of having tried to light the fire," said Jevons, taking an old newspaper, twisting it up, and setting light to it in the grate, afterwards stirring up the dead tinder with the tinder of the letters. "I'll remark incidentally to the constable that we've tried to get a fire, and didn't succeed. That will prevent Thorpe poking his nose into it."

So when the whole of the letters had been destroyed, all traces of their remains effaced and the safe re-locked, we went downstairs—not, however, before my companion had made a satisfactory explanation to the constable and entirely misled him as to what we had been doing.



CHAPTER XII.

I RECEIVE A VISITOR.

The adjourned inquest was resumed on the day appointed in the big room at the Star and Garter at Kew, and the public, eager as ever for sensational details, overflowed through the bar and out into the street, until the police were compelled to disperse the crowd. The evening papers had worked up all kinds of theories, some worthy of attention, others ridiculous; hence the excitement and interest had become intense.

The extraordinary nature of the wound which caused Mr. Courtenay's death was the chief element of mystery. Our medical evidence had produced a sensation, for we had been agreed that to inflict such a wound with any instrument which could pass through the exterior orifice was an absolute impossibility. Sir Bernard and myself were still both bewildered. In the consulting room at Harley Street we had discussed it a dozen times, but could arrive at no definite conclusion as to how such a terrible wound could possibly have been caused.

I noticed a change in Sir Bernard. He seemed mopish, thoughtful, and somewhat despondent. Usually he was a busy, bustling man, whose manner with his patients was rather brusque, and who, unlike the majority of my own profession, went to the point at once. There is no profession in which one is compelled to exercise so much affected patience and courtesy as in the profession of medicine. Patients will bore you to death with long and tedious histories of all their ailments since the days when they chewed a gutta-percha teething-ring, and to appear impatient is to court a reputation for flippancy and want of attention. Great men may hold up their hands and cry "Enough!" But small men must sit with pencil poised, apparently intensely interested, and listen through until the patient has exhausted his long-winded recollections of all his ills.

Contrary to his usual custom, Sir Bernard did not now return to Hove each evening, but remained at Harley Street—dining alone off a chop or a steak, and going out afterwards, probably to his club. His change of manner surprised me. I noticed in him distinct signs of nervous disorder; and on several afternoons he sent round to me at the Hospital, saying that he could not see his patients, and asking me to run back to Harley Street and take his place.

On the evening before the adjourned inquest I remarked to him that he did not appear very well, and his reply, in a strained, desponding voice, was:

"Poor Courtenay has gone. He was my best friend."

Yes, it was as I expected, he was sorrowing over his friend.

When we had re-assembled at the Star and Garter, he entered quietly and took a seat beside me just before the commencement of the proceedings.

The Coroner, having read over all the depositions taken on the first occasion, asked the police if they had any further evidence to offer, whereupon the local inspector of the T Division answered with an air of mystery:

"We have nothing, sir, which we can make public. Active inquiries are still in progress."

"No further medical evidence?" asked the coroner.

I turned towards Sir Bernard inquiringly, and as I did so my eye caught a face hidden by a black veil, seated among the public at the far side of the room. It was Ethelwynn herself—come there to watch the proceedings and hear with her own ears whether the police had obtained traces of the assassin!

Her anxious countenance shone through her veil haggard and white; her eyes were fixed upon the Coroner. She hung breathlessly upon his every word.

"We have no further evidence," replied the inspector.

There was a pause. The public who were there in search of some solution of the bewildering mystery which had been published in every paper through the land, were disappointed. They had expected at least to hear some expert evidence—which, if not always reliable, is always interesting. But there seemed an inclination on the part of the police to maintain a silence which increased rather than lessened the mystery.

"Well, gentlemen," exclaimed Dr. Diplock, turning at last to the twelve local tradesmen who formed the jury, "you have heard the evidence in this curious case, and your duty is to decide in what manner the deceased came by his death, whether by accidental means, or by foul play. I think in the circumstances you will have very little difficulty in deciding. The case is a mysterious one—a very mysterious one. The deceased was a gentleman of means who was suffering from a malignant disease, and that disease must have proved fatal within a short time. Now this fact appears to have been well known to himself, to the members of his household, and probably to most of his friends. Nevertheless, he was found dead in circumstances which point most strongly to wilful murder. If he was actually murdered, the assassin, whoever he was, had some very strong incentive in killing him at once, because he might well have waited another few months for the fatal termination of the disease. That fact, however, is not for you to consider, gentlemen. You are here for the sole purpose of deciding whether or not this case is one of murder. If, in your opinion it is, then it becomes your duty to return a verdict to that effect and leave it to the police to discover the assassin. To comment at length on the many mysterious circumstances surrounding the tragedy is, I think, needless. The depositions I have just read are sufficiently full and explanatory, especially the evidence of Sir Bernard Eyton and of Doctor Boyd, both of whom, besides being well-known in the profession, were personal friends of the deceased. In considering your verdict I would further beg of you not to heed any theories you may have read in the newspapers, but adjudge the matter from a fair and impartial standpoint, and give your verdict as you honestly believe the truth to be."

The dead silence which had prevailed during the Coroner's address was at once broken by the uneasy moving of the crowd. I glanced across at Ethelwynn, and saw her sitting immovable, breathless, statuesque.

She watched the foreman of the jury whispering to two or three of his colleagues in the immediate vicinity. The twelve tradesmen consulted together in an undertone, while the reporters at the table conversed audibly. They, too, were disappointed at being unable to obtain any sensational "copy."

"If you wish to retire in order to consider your verdict, gentlemen, you are quite at liberty to do so," remarked the coroner.

"That is unnecessary," replied the foreman. "We are agreed unanimously."

"Upon what?"

"Our verdict is that the deceased was wilfully murdered by some person or persons unknown."

"Very well, gentlemen. Of course in my position I am not permitted to give you advice, but I think that you could have arrived at no other verdict. The police will use every endeavour to discover the identity of the assassin."

I glanced at Ethelwynn, and at that instant she turned her head, and her eyes met mine. She started quickly, her face blanched to the lips; then she rose unsteadily, and with the crowd went slowly out.

Ambler Jevons, who had been seated at the opposite side of the room, got up and rushed away; therefore I had no chance to get a word with him. He had glanced at me significantly, and I knew well what passed through his mind. Like myself, he was thinking of that strange letter we had found among the dead man's effects and had agreed to destroy.

About nine o'clock that same night I had left Sir Bernard's and was strolling slowly round to my rooms, when my friend's cheery voice sounded behind me. He was on his way to have a smoke with me as usual, he explained. So we entered together, and after I had turned up the light and brought out the drinks he flung himself into his habitual chair, and stretching himself wearily said—

"The affair becomes more mysterious hourly."

"How?" I inquired quickly.

"I've been down to Kew this afternoon," was his rather ambiguous response. "I had to go to my office directly after the inquest, but I returned at once."

"And what have you discovered? Anything fresh?"

"Yes," he responded slowly. "A fresh fact or two—facts that still increase the mystery."

"What are they? Tell me," I urged.

"No, Ralph, old chap. When I am certain of their true importance I'll explain them to you. At present I desire to pursue my own methods until I arrive at some clear conclusion."

This disinclination to tell me the truth was annoying. He had always been quite frank and open, explaining all his theories, and showing to me any weak points in the circumstantial evidence. Yet suddenly, as it seemed to me, he had become filled with a strange mistrust. Why, I could not conceive.

"But surely you can tell me the nature of your discoveries?" I said. "There need be no secrets between us in this affair."

"No, Ralph. But I'm superstitious enough to believe that ill-luck follows a premature exposure of one's plans," he said.

His excuse was a lame one—a very lame one. I smiled—in order to show him that I read through such a transparent attempt to mislead me.

"I might have refused to show you that letter of Ethelwynn's," I protested. "Yet our interests being mutual I handed it to you."

"And it is well that you did."

"Why?"

"Because knowledge of it has changed the whole course of my inquiries."

"Changed them from one direction to another?"

He nodded.

"And you are now prosecuting them in the direction of Ethelwynn?"

"No," he answered. "Not exactly."

I looked at his face, and saw upon it an expression of profound mysteriousness. His dark, well-marked countenance was a complex one always, but at that moment I was utterly unable to discern whether he spoke the truth, or whether he only wished to mislead my suspicions into a different channel. That he was the acme of shrewdness, that his powers of deduction were extraordinary, and that his patience in unravelling a secret was almost beyond comprehension I knew well. Even those great trackers of criminals, Shaw and Maddox, of New Scotland Yard, held him in respect, and admired his acute intelligence and marvellous power of perception.

Yet his attempt to evade a question which so closely concerned my own peace of mind and future happiness tried my patience. If he had really discovered some fresh facts I considered it but right that I should be acquainted with them.

"Has your opinion changed as to the identity of the person who committed the crime?" I asked him, rather abruptly.

"Not in the least," he responded, slowly lighting his foul pipe. "How can it, in the face of the letter we burnt?"

"Then you think that jealousy was the cause of the tragedy? That she——"

"No, not jealousy," he interrupted, speaking quite calmly. "The facts I have discovered go to show that the motive was not jealousy."

"Hatred, then?"

"No, not hatred."

"Then what?"

"That's just where I fail to form a theory," he answered, after a brief silence, during which he watched the blue smoke curl upward to the sombre ceiling of my room. "In a few days I hope to discover the motive."

"You will let me assist you?" I urged, eagerly. "I am at your disposal at any hour."

"No," he answered, decisively. "You are prejudiced, Ralph. You unfortunately still love that woman."

A sigh escaped me. What he said was, alas! too true. I had adored her through those happy months prior to the tragedy. She had come into my lonely bachelor life as the one ray of sunlight that gave me hope and happiness, and I had lived for her alone. Because of her I had striven to rise in the profession, and had laboured hard so that in a little while I might be in a position to marry and buy that quiet country practice that was my ideal existence. And even now, with my idol broken by the knowledge of her previous engagement to the man now dead, I confess that I nevertheless still entertained a strong affection for her. The memory of a past love is often more sweet than the love itself—and to men it is so very often fatal.

I had risen to pour out some whiskey for my companion when, of a sudden, my man opened the door and announced:

"There's a lady to see you, sir."

"A lady?" we both exclaimed, with one voice.

"Yes, sir," and he handed me a card.

I glanced at it. My visitor was the very last person I desired to meet at that moment, for she was none other than Ethelwynn herself.

"I'll go, old chap," Jevons cried, springing to his feet, and draining his glass at a single draught. "She mustn't meet me here. Good-bye till to-morrow. Remember, betray no sign to her that you know the truth. It's certainly a curious affair, as it now stands; but depend upon it that there's more complication and mystery in it than we have yet suspected."



CHAPTER XIII.

MY LOVE.

As soon as Ambler Jevons had slipped out through my little study my love came slowly forward, as though with some unwillingness.

She was dressed, as at the inquest, in deep mourning, wearing a smartly-cut tailor-made dress trimmed with astrachan and a neat toque, her pale countenance covered with a thick spotted veil.

"Ralph," she exclaimed in a low voice, "forgive me for calling upon you at this hour. I know it's indiscreet, but I am very anxious to see you."

I returned her greeting, rather coldly I am afraid, and led her to the big armchair which had only a moment before been vacated by my friend.

When she seated herself and faced me I saw how changed she was, even though she did not lift her veil. Her dark eyes seemed haggard and sunken, her cheeks, usually pink with the glow of health, were white, almost ghastly, and her slim, well-gloved hand, resting upon the chair arm, trembled perceptibly.

"You have not come to me for two whole days, Ralph," she commenced in a tone of complaint. "Surely you do not intend to desert me in these hours of distress?"

"I must apologise," I responded quickly, remembering Jevons' advice. "But the fact is I myself have been very upset over the sad affair, and, in addition, I've had several serious cases during the past few days. Sir Bernard has been unwell, and I've been compelled to look after his practice."

"Sir Bernard!" she ejaculated, in a tone which instantly struck me as strange. It was as though she held him in abhorrence. "Do you know, Ralph, I hate to think of you in association with that man."

"Why?" I asked, much surprised, while at that same moment the thought flashed through my mind how often Sir Bernard had given me vague warnings regarding her.

They were evidently bitter enemies.

"I have no intention to give my reasons," she replied, her brows slightly knit. "I merely give it as my opinion that you should no longer remain in association with him."

"But surely you are alone in that opinion!" I said. "He bears a high character, and is certainly one of the first physicians in London. His practice is perhaps the most valuable of any medical man at the present moment."

"I don't deny that," she said, her gloved fingers twitching nervously. "A man may be a king, and at the same time a knave."

I smiled. It was apparent that her intention was to separate me from the man to whom I owed nearly all, if not quite all, my success. And why? Because he knew of her past, and she feared that he might, in a moment of confidence, betray all to me.

"Vague hints are always irritating," I remarked. "Cannot you give me some reason for your desire that my friendship with him should end?"

"No. If I did, you would accuse me of selfish motives," she said, fixing her dark eyes upon me.

Could a woman with a Madonna-like countenance be actually guilty of murder? It seemed incredible. And yet her manner was that of a woman haunted by the terrible secret of her crime. At that moment she was seeking, by ingenious means, to conceal the truth regarding the past. She feared that my intimate friendship with the great physician might result in her unmasking.

"I can't see that selfish motives enter into this affair at all," I remarked. "Whatever you tell me, Ethelwynn, is, I know, for my own benefit. Therefore you should at least be explicit."

"I can't be more explicit."

"Why not?"

"Because I have no right to utter a libel without being absolutely certain of the facts."

"I don't quite follow you," I said, rather puzzled.

"I mean that at present the information I have is vague," she replied. "But if it is the truth, as I expect to establish it, then you must dissociate yourself from him, Ralph."

"You have only suspicions?"

"Only suspicions."

"Of what?"

"Of a fact which will some day astound you."

Our eyes met again, and I saw in hers a look of intense earnestness that caused me to wonder. To what could she possibly be referring?

"You certainly arouse my curiosity," I said, affecting to laugh. "Do you really think Sir Bernard such a very dreadful person, then?"

"Ah! You do not take my words seriously," she remarked. "I am warning you, Ralph, for your own benefit. It is a pity you do not heed me."

"I do heed you," I declared. "Only your statement is so strange that it appears almost incredible."

"Incredible it may seem; but one day ere long you will be convinced that what I say to-night is the truth."

"What do you say?"

"I say that Sir Bernard Eyton, the man in whom you place every confidence, and whose example as a great man in his profession you are so studiously following, is not your friend."

"Nor yours, I suppose?"

"No, neither is he mine."

This admission was at least the truth. I had known it long ago. But what had been the cause of difference between them was hidden in deepest mystery. Sir Bernard, as old Mr. Courtenay's most intimate friend, knew, in all probability, of his engagement to her, and of its rupture in favour of her sister Mary. It might even be that Sir Bernard had had a hand in the breaking of the engagement. If so, that would well account for her violent hostility towards him.

Such thoughts, with others, flashed through my mind as I sat there facing her. She was leaning back, her hands fallen idly upon her lap, peering straight at me through that spotted veil which, half-concealing her wondrous beauty, imparted to her an additional air of mystery.

"You have quarrelled with Sir Bernard, I presume?" I hazarded.

"Quarrelled!" she echoed. "We were never friends."

Truly she possessed all a clever woman's presence of mind in the evasion of a leading question.

"He was an acquaintance of yours?"

"An acquaintance—yes. But I have always distrusted him."

"Mary likes him, I believe," I remarked. "He was poor Courtenay's most intimate friend for many years."

"She judges him from that standpoint alone. Any of her husband's friends were hers, and she was fully cognisant of Sir Bernard's unceasing attention to the sufferer."

"If that is so it is rather a pity that she was recently so neglectful," I said.

"I know, Ralph—I know the reason of it all," she faltered. "I can't explain to you, because it is not just that I should expose my sister's secret. But I know the truth which, when revealed, will make it clear to the world that her apparent neglect was not culpable. She had a motive."

"A motive in going to town of an evening and enjoying herself!" I exclaimed. "Of course, the motive was to obtain relaxation. When a man is more than twice the age of his wife, the latter is apt to chafe beneath the golden fetter. It's the same everywhere—in Mayfair as in Mile End; in Suburbia as in a rural village. Difference of age is difference of temperament; and difference of temperament opens a breach which only a lover can fill."

She was silent—her eyes cast down. She saw that the attempt to vindicate her sister had, as before, utterly and ignominiously failed.

"Yes, Ralph, you are right," she admitted at last. "Judged from a philosophic standpoint a wife ought not to be more than ten years her husband's junior. Love which arises out of mere weakness is as easily fixed upon one object as another; and consequently is at all times transferable. It is so pleasant to us women to be admired, and so soothing to be loved that the grand trial of constancy to a young woman married to an elderly man is not to add one more conquest to her triumphs, but to earn the respect and esteem of the man who is her husband. And it is difficult. Of that I am convinced."

There was for the first time a true ring of earnestness in her voice, and I saw by her manner that her heart was overburdened by the sorrow that had fallen upon her sister. Her character was a complex one which I had failed always to analyse, and it seemed just then as though her endeavour was to free her sister of all the responsibilities of her married life. She had made that effort once before, prior to the tragedy, but its motive was hidden in obscurity.

"Women are often very foolish," she went on, half-apologetically. "Having chosen their lover for his suitability they usually allow the natural propensity of their youthful minds to invest him with every ideal of excellence. That is a fatal error committed by the majority of women. We ought to be satisfied with him as he is, rather than imagine him what he never can be."

"Yes," I said, smiling at her philosophy. "It would certainly save them a world of disappointment in after life. It has always struck me that the extravagant investiture of fancy does not belong, as is commonly supposed, to the meek, true and abiding attachment which it is woman's highest virtue and noblest distinction to feel. I strongly suspect it is vanity, and not affection, which leads a woman to believe her lover perfect; because it enhances her triumph to be the choice of such a man."

"Ah! I'm glad that we agree, Ralph," she said with a sigh and an air of deep seriousness. "The part of the true-hearted woman is to be satisfied with her lover such as he is, old or young, and to consider him, with all his faults, as sufficiently perfect for her. No after development of character can then shake her faith, no ridicule or exposure can weaken her tenderness for a single moment; while, on the other hand, she who has blindly believed her lover to be without a fault, must ever be in danger of awaking to the conviction that her love exists no longer."

"As in your own case," I added, in an endeavour to obtain from her the reason of this curious discourse.

"My own case!" she echoed. "No, Ralph. I have never believed you to be a perfect ideal. I have loved you because I knew that you loved me. Our tastes are in common, our admiration for each other is mutual, and our affection strong and ever-increasing—until—until——"

And faltering, she stopped abruptly, without concluding her sentence.

"Until what?" I asked.

Tears sprang to her eyes. One drop rolled down her white cheek until it reached her veil, and stood there sparkling beneath the light.

"You know well," she said hoarsely. "Until the tragedy. From that moment, Ralph, you changed. You are not the same to me as formerly. I feel—I feel," she confessed, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly, "I feel that I have lost you."

"Lost me! I don't understand," I said, feigning not to comprehend her.

"I feel as though you no longer held me in esteem," she faltered through her tears. "Something tells me, Ralph, that—that your love for me has vanished, never to return!"

With a sudden movement she raised her veil, and I saw how white and anxious was her fair countenance. I could not bring myself to believe that such a perfect face could conceal a heart blackened by the crime of murder. But, alas! all men are weak where a pretty woman is concerned. After all, it is feminine wiles and feminine graces that rule our world. Man is but a poor mortal at best, easily moved to sympathy by a woman's tears, and as easily misled by the touch of a soft hand or a passionate caress upon the lips. Diplomacy is inborn in woman, and although every woman is not an adventuress, yet one and all are clever actresses when the game of love is being played.

The thought of that letter I had read and destroyed again recurred to me. Yes, she had concealed her secret—the secret of her attempt to marry Courtenay for his money. And yet if, as seemed so apparent, she had nursed her hatred, was it not but natural that she should assume a hostile attitude towards her sister—the woman who had eclipsed her in the old man's affections? Nevertheless, on the contrary, she was always apologetic where Mary was concerned, and had always sought to conceal her shortcomings and domestic infelicity. It was that point which so sorely puzzled me.

"Why should my love for you become suddenly extinguished?" I asked, for want of something other to say.

"I don't know," she faltered. "I cannot tell why, but I have a distinct distrust of the future, a feeling that we are drifting apart."

She spoke the truth. A woman in love is quick of perception, and no feigned affection on the man's part can ever blind her.

I saw that she read my heart like an open book, and at once strove to reassure her, trying to bring myself to believe that I had misjudged her.

"No, no, dearest," I said, rising with a hollow pretence of caressing her tears away. "You are nervous, and upset by the tragedy. Try to forget it all."

"Forget!" she echoed in a hard voice, her eyes cast down despondently. "Forget that night! Ah, no, I can never forget it—never!"



CHAPTER XIV.

IS DISTINCTLY CURIOUS.

The dark days of the London winter brightened into spring, but the mystery of old Mr. Courtenay's death remained an enigma inexplicable to police and public. Ambler Jevons had prosecuted independent inquiries assiduously in various quarters, detectives had watched the subsequent movements of Short and the other servants, but all to no purpose. The sudden disappearance of Short was discovered to be due to the illness of his brother.

The identity of the assassin, as well as the mode in which the extraordinary wound had been inflicted, both remained mysteries impenetrable.

At Guy's we were a trifle under-staffed, and my work was consequently heavy; while, added to that, Sir Bernard was suffering from the effects of a severe chill, and had not been able to come to town for nearly a month. Therefore, I had been kept at it practically night and day, dividing my time between the hospital, Harley Street, and my own rooms. I saw little of my friend Jevons, for his partner had been ordered to Bournemouth for his health, and therefore his constant attendance at his office in Mark Lane was imperative. Ambler had now but little leisure save on Sundays, when we would usually dine together at the Cavour, the Globe, the Florence, or some other foreign restaurant.

Whenever I spoke to him of the tragedy, he would sigh, his face would assume a puzzled expression, and he would declare that the affair utterly passed his comprehension. Once or twice he referred to Ethelwynn, but it struck me that he did not give tongue to what passed within his mind for fear of offending me. His methods were based on patience, therefore I often wondered whether he was still secretly at work upon the case, and if so, whether he had gained any additional facts. Yet he told me nothing. It was a mystery, he said—that was all.

Of Ethelwynn I saw but little, making my constant occupation with Sir Bernard's patients my excuse. She had taken up her abode with Mrs. Henniker—the cousin at whose house Mary had stayed on the night of the tragedy. The furniture at Richmond Road had been removed and the house advertised for sale, young Mrs. Courtenay having moved to her aunt's house in the country, a few miles from Bath.

On several occasions I had dined at Redcliffe Square, finding both Mrs. Henniker and her husband extremely agreeable. Henniker was partner in a big brewing concern at Clapham, and a very good fellow; while his wife was a middle-aged, fair-haired woman, of the type who shop of afternoons in High Street, Kensington. Ethelwynn had always been a particular favourite with both, hence she was a welcome guest at Redcliffe Square. Old Mr. Courtenay had had business relations with Henniker a couple of years before, and a slight difference had led to an open quarrel. For that reason they had not of late visited at Kew.

On the occasions I had spent the evening with Ethelwynn at their house I had watched her narrowly, yet neither by look nor by action did she betray any sign of a guilty secret. Her manner had during those weeks changed entirely; for she seemed perfectly calm and self-possessed, and although she alluded but seldom to our love, she treated me with that same sweet tenderness as before the fatal night of her brother-in-law's assassination.

I must admit that her attitude, although it inspired me with a certain amount of confidence, nevertheless caused me to ponder deeply. I knew enough of human nature to be aware that it is woman's metier to keep up appearances. Was she keeping up an appearance of innocence, although her heart was blackened by a crime?

One evening, when we chanced to be left alone in the little smoking-room after dinner, she suddenly turned to me, saying:

"I've often thought how strange you must have thought my visit to your rooms that night, Ralph. It was unpardonable, I know—only I wanted to warn you of that man."

"Of Sir Bernard?" I observed, laughing.

"Yes. But it appears that you have not heeded me," she sighed. "I fear, Ralph, that you will regret some day."

"Why should I regret? Your fears are surely baseless."

"No," she answered decisively. "They are not baseless. I have reasons—strong ones—for urging you to break your connexion with him. He is no friend to you."

I smiled. I knew quite well that he was no friend of hers. Once or twice of late he had said in that peevish snappy voice of his:

"I wonder what that woman, Mrs. Courtenay's sister, is doing? I hear nothing of her."

I did not enlighten him, for I had no desire to hear her maligned. I knew the truth myself sufficiently well.

But turning to her I looked straight into her dark luminous eyes, those eyes that held me always as beneath their spell, saying:

"He has proved himself my best friend, up to the present. I have no reason to doubt him."

"But you will have. I warn you."

"In what manner, then, is he my enemy?"

She hesitated, as though half-fearing to respond to my question. Presently she said:

"He is my enemy—and therefore yours."

"Why is he your enemy?" I asked, eager to clear up a point which had so long puzzled me.

"I cannot tell," she responded. "One sometimes gives offence and makes enemies without being aware of it."

The evasion was a clever one. Another illustration of tactful ingenuity.

By dint of careful cross-examination I endeavoured to worm from her the secret of my chief's antagonism, but she was dumb to every inquiry, fencing with me in a manner that would have done credit to a police-court solicitor. Though sweet, innocent, and intensely charming, yet there was a reverse side of her character, strong, firm-minded, almost stern in its austerity.

I must here say that our love, once so passionate and displayed by fond kisses and hand-pressing, in the usual manner of lovers, had gradually slackened. A kiss on arrival and another on departure was all the demonstration of affection that now passed between us. I doubted her; and though I strove hard to conceal my true feelings, I fear that my coldness was apparent, not only to her but to the Hennikers also. She had complained of it when she called at my rooms, and certainly she had full reason for doing so. I am not one of those who can feign love. Some men can; I cannot.

Thus it will be seen that although a certain coolness had arisen between us, in a manner that seemed almost mutual, we were nevertheless the best of friends. Once or twice she dined with me at a restaurant, and went to a play afterwards, on such occasions remarking that it seemed like "old times," in the early days of our blissful love. And sometimes she would recall those sweet halcyon hours, until I felt a pang of regret that my trust in her had been shaken by that letter found among the dead man's effects and that tiny piece of chenille. But I steeled my heart, because I felt assured that the truth must out some day.

Mine was a strange position for any man. I loved this woman, remember; loved her with all my heart and with all my soul. Yet that letter penned by her had shown me that she had once angled for larger spoils, and was not the sweet unsophisticated woman I had always supposed her to be. It showed me, too, that in her heart had rankled a fierce, undying hatred.

Because of this I did not seek her society frequently, but occupied myself diligently with my patients—seeking solace in my work, as many another professional man does where love or domestic happiness is concerned. There are few men in my profession who have not had their affairs of the heart, many of them serious ones. The world never knows how difficult it is for a doctor to remain heart-whole. Sometimes his lady patients deliberately set themselves to capture him, and will speak ill-naturedly of him if he refuses to fall into their net. At others, sympathy with a sufferer leads to a flirtation during convalescence, and often a word spoken in jest in order to cheer is taken seriously by romantic girls who believe that to marry a doctor is to attain social status and distinction.

Heigho! When I think of all my own little love episodes, and of the ingenious diplomacy to which I have been compelled to resort in order to avoid tumbling into pitfalls set by certain designing Daughters of Eve, I cannot but sympathise with every other medical man who is on the right side of forty and sound of wind and limb. There is not a doctor in all the long list in the medical register who could not relate strange stories of his own love episodes—romances which have sometimes narrowly escaped developing into tragedies, and plots concocted by women to inveigle and to allure. It is so easy for a woman to feign illness and call in the doctor to chat to her and amuse her. Lots of women in London do that regularly. They will play with a doctor's heart as a sort of pastime, while the unfortunate medico often cannot afford to hold aloof for fear of offending. If he does, then evil gossip will spread among his patients and his practice may suffer considerably; for in no profession does a man rely so entirely upon his good name and a reputation for care and integrity as in that of medicine.

I do not wish it for a moment to be taken that I am antagonistic to women, or that I would ever speak ill of them. I merely refer to the mean method of some of the idling class, who deliberately call in the doctor for the purpose of flirtation and then boast of it to their intimates. To such, a man's heart or a man's future are of no consequence. The doctor is easily visible, and is therefore the easiest prey to all and sundry.

In my own practice I had had a good deal of experience of it. And I am not alone. Every other medical man, if not a grey-headed fossil or a wizened woman-hater, has had similar episodes; many strange—some even startling.

Reader, in this narrative of curious events and remarkable happenings, I am taking you entirely and completely into my confidence. I seek to conceal nothing, nor to exaggerate in any particular, but to present the truth as a plain matter-of-fact statement of what actually occurred. I was a unit among a hundred thousand others engaged in the practice of medicine, not more skilled than the majority, even though Sir Bernard's influence and friendship had placed me in a position of prominence. But in this brief life of ours it is woman who makes us dance as puppets on our miniature stage, who leads us to brilliant success or to black ruin, who exalts us above our fellows or hurls us into oblivion. Woman—always woman.

Since that awful suspicion had fallen upon me that the hand that had struck old Mr. Courtenay was that soft delicate one that I had so often carried to my lips, a blank had opened in my life. Consumed by conflicting thoughts, I recollected how sweet and true had been our affection; with what an intense passionate love-look she had gazed upon me with those wonderful eyes of hers; with what wild fierce passion her lips would meet mine in fond caress.

Alas! it had all ended. She had acted a lie to me. That letter told the bitter truth. Hence, we were gradually drifting apart.

One Sunday morning in May, just as I had finished my breakfast and flung myself into an armchair to smoke, as was my habit on the day of rest, my man entered, saying that Lady Twickenham had sent to ask if I could go round to Park Lane at once. Not at all pleased with this call, just at a moment of laziness, I was, nevertheless, obliged to respond, because her ladyship was one of Sir Bernard's best patients; and suffering as she was from a malignant internal complaint, I knew it was necessary to respond at once to the summons.

On arrival at her bedside I quickly saw the gravity of the situation; but, unfortunately, I knew very little of the case, because Sir Bernard himself always made a point of attending her personally. Although elderly, she was a prominent woman in society, and had recommended many patients to my chief in earlier days, before he attained the fame he had now achieved. I remained with her a couple of hours; but finding myself utterly confused regarding her symptoms, I resolved to take the afternoon train down to Hove and consult Sir Bernard. I suggested this course to her ladyship, who was at once delighted with the suggestion. Therefore, promising to return at ten o'clock that night, I went out, swallowed a hasty luncheon, and took train down to Brighton.

The house was one of those handsome mansions facing the sea at Hove, and as I drove up to it on that bright, sunny afternoon, it seemed to me an ideal residence for a man jaded by the eternal worries of a physician's life. The sea-breeze stirred the sun-blinds before the windows, and the flowers in the well-kept boxes were already gay with bloom. I knew the place well, for I had been down many times before; therefore, when the page opened the door he showed me at once to the study, a room which lay at the back of the big drawing-room.

"Sir Bernard is in, sir," the page said. "I'll tell him at once you're here," and he closed the door, leaving me alone.

I walked towards the window, which looked out upon a small flower garden, and in so doing, passed the writing table. A sheet of foolscap lay upon it, and curiosity prompted me to glance at it.

What I saw puzzled me considerably; for beside the paper was a letter of my own that I had sent him on the previous day, while upon the foolscap were many lines of writing in excellent imitation of my own!

He had been practising the peculiarities of my own handwriting. But with what purpose was a profound mystery.

I was bending over, closely examining the words and noting how carefully they had been traced in imitation, when, of a sudden, I heard a voice in the drawing-room adjoining—a woman's voice.

I pricked my ears and listened—for the eccentric old fellow to entertain was most unusual. He always hated women, because he saw too much of their wiles and wilfulness as patients.

Nevertheless it was apparent that he had a lady visitor in the adjoining room, and a moment later it was equally apparent that they were not on the most friendly terms; for, of a sudden, the voice sounded again quite distinctly—raised in a cry of horror, as though at some sudden and terrible discovery.

"Ah! I see—I see it all now!" shrieked the unknown woman. "You have deceived me! Coward! You call yourself a man—you, who would sell a woman's soul to the devil!"

"Hold your tongue!" cried a gruff voice which I recognised as Sir Bernard's. "You may be overheard. Recollect that your safety can only be secured by your secrecy."

"I shall tell the truth!" the woman declared.

"Very well," laughed the man who was my chief in a tone of defiance. "Tell it, and condemn yourself."



CHAPTER XV.

I AM CALLED FOR CONSULTATION.

The incident was certainly a puzzling one, for when, a few minutes later, my chief entered the study, his face, usually ashen grey, was flushed with excitement.

"I've been having trouble with a lunatic," he explained, after greeting me, and inquiring why I had come down to consult him. "The woman's people are anxious to place her under restraint; yet, for the present, there is not quite sufficient evidence of insanity to sign the certificate. Did you overhear her in the next room?" And, seating himself at his table, he looked at me through his glasses with those keen penetrating eyes that age had not dimmed or time dulled.

"I heard voices," I admitted, "that was all." The circumstance was a strange one, and those words were so ominous that I was determined not to reveal to him the conversation I had overheard.

"Like many other women patients suffering from brain troubles, she has taken a violent dislike to me, and believes that I'm the very devil in human form," he said, smiling. "Fortunately, she had a friend with her, or she might have attacked me tooth and nail just now," and leaning back in his chair he laughed at the idea—laughed so lightly that my suspicions were almost disarmed.

But not quite. Had you been in my place you would have had your curiosity and suspicion aroused to no mean degree—not only by the words uttered by the woman and Sir Bernard's defiant reply, but also by the fact that the female voice sounded familiar.

A man knows the voice of his love above all. The voice that I had heard in that adjoining room was, to the best of my belief, that of Ethelwynn.

With a resolution to probe this mystery slowly, and without unseemly haste, I dropped the subject, and commenced to ask his advice regarding the complicated case of Lady Twickenham. The history of it, and the directions he gave can serve no purpose if written here; therefore suffice it to say that I remained to dinner and caught the nine o'clock express back to London.

While at dinner, a meal served in that severe style which characterised the austere old man's daily life, I commenced to talk of the antics of insane persons and their extraordinary antipathies, but quickly discerned that he had neither intention nor desire to speak of them. He replied in those snappy monosyllables which told me plainly that the subject was distasteful to him, and when I bade him good-bye and drove to the station I was more puzzled than ever by his strange behaviour. He was eccentric, it was true; but I knew all his little odd ways, the eccentricity of genius, and could plainly see that his recent indisposition, which had prevented him from attending at Harley Street, was due to nerves rather than to a chill.

The trains from Brighton to London on Sunday evenings are always crowded, mainly by business people compelled to return to town in readiness for the toil of the coming week. Week-end trippers and day excursionists fill the compartments to overflowing, whether it be chilly spring or blazing summer, for Brighton is ever popular with the jaded Londoner who is enabled to "run down" without fatigue, and get a cheap health-giving sea-breeze for a few hours after the busy turmoil of the Metropolis.

On this Sunday night it was no exception. The first-class compartment was crowded, mostly be it said, by third-class passengers who had "tipped" the guard, and when we had started I noticed in the far corner opposite me a pale-faced young girl of about twenty or so, plainly dressed in shabby black. She was evidently a third-class passenger, and the guard, taking compassion upon her fragile form in the mad rush for seats, had put her into our carriage. She was not good-looking, indeed rather plain; her countenance wearing a sad, pre-occupied expression as she leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed out upon the lights of the town we were leaving.

I noticed that her chest rose and fell in a long-drawn sigh, and that she wore black cotton gloves, one finger of which was worn through. Yes, she was the picture of poor respectability.

The other passengers, two of whom were probably City clerks with their loves, regarded her with some surprise that she should be a first-class passenger, and there seemed an inclination on the part of the loudly-dressed females to regard her with contempt.

Presently, when we had left the sea and were speeding through the open country, she turned her sad face from the window and examined her fellow passengers one after the other until, of a sudden, her eyes met mine. In an instant she dropped them modestly and busied herself in the pages of the sixpenny reprint of a popular novel which she carried with her.

In that moment, however, I somehow entertained a belief that we had met before. Under what circumstances, or where, I could not recollect. The wistfulness of that white face, the slight hollowness of the cheeks, the unnaturally dark eyes, all seemed familiar to me; yet although for half an hour I strove to bring back to my mind where I had seen her, it was to no purpose. In all probability I had attended her at Guy's. A doctor in a big London hospital sees so many faces that to recollect all is utterly impossible. Many a time I have been accosted and thanked by people whom I have had no recollection of ever having seen in my life. Men do not realise that they look very different when lying in bed with a fortnight's growth of beard to when shaven and spruce, as is their ordinary habit: while women, when smartly dressed with fashionable hats and flimsy veils, are very different to when, in illness, they lie with hair unbound, faces pinched and eyes sunken, which is the only recollection their doctor has of them. The duchess and the servant girl present very similar figures when lying on a sick bed in a critical condition.

There was an element of romantic mystery in that fragile little figure huddled up in the far corner of the carriage. Once or twice, when she believed my gaze to be averted, she raised her eyes furtively as though to reassure herself of my identity, and in her restless manner I discerned a desire to speak with me. It was very probable that she was some poor girl of the lady's maid or governess class to whom I had shown attention during an illness. We have so many in the female wards at Guy's.

But during that journey a further and much more important matter recurred to me, eclipsing all thought of the sad-faced girl opposite. I recollected those words I had overheard, and felt convinced that the speaker had been none other than Ethelwynn herself.

Sometimes when a man's mind is firmly fixed upon an object the events of his daily life curiously tend towards it. Have you never experienced that strange phenomenon for which medical science has never yet accounted, namely, the impression of form upon the imagination? You have one day suddenly thought of a person long absent. You have not seen him for years, when, without any apparent cause, you have recollected him. In the hurry and bustle of city life a thousand faces are passing you hourly. Like a flash one man passes, and you turn to look, for the countenance bears a striking resemblance to your absent friend. You are disappointed, for it is not the man. A second face appears in the human phantasmagoria of the street, and the similarity is almost startling. You are amazed that two persons should pass so very like your friend. Then, an hour after, a third face—actually that of your long-lost friend himself. All of us have experienced similar vagaries of coincidence. How can we account for them?

And so it was in my own case. So deeply had my mind been occupied by thoughts of my love that several times that day, in London and in Brighton, I had been startled by striking resemblances. Thus I wondered whether that voice I had heard was actually hers, or only a distorted hallucination. At any rate, the woman had expressed hatred of Sir Bernard just as Ethelwynn had done, and further, the old man had openly defied her, with a harsh laugh, which showed confidence in himself and an utter disregard for any statement she might make.

At Victoria the pale-faced girl descended quickly, and, swallowed in a moment in the crowd on the platform, I saw her no more.

She had, before descending, given me a final glance, and I fancied that a faint smile of recognition played about her lips. But in the uncertain light of a railway carriage the shadows are heavy, and I could not see sufficiently distinctly to warrant my returning her salute. So the wan little figure, so full of romantic mystery, went forth again into oblivion.

I was going my round at Guy's on the following morning when a telegram was put into my hand. It was from Ethelwynn's mother—Mrs. Mivart, at Neneford—asking me to go down there without delay, but giving no reason for the urgency. I had always been a favourite with the old lady, and to obey was, of course, imperative—even though I were compelled to ask Bartlett, one of my colleagues, to look after Sir Bernard's private practice in my absence.

Neneford Manor was an ancient, rambling old Queen Anne place, about nine miles from Peterborough on the high road to Leicester. Standing in the midst of the richest grass country in England, with its grounds sloping to the brimming river that wound through meadows which in May were a blaze of golden buttercups, it was a typical English home, with quaint old gables, high chimney stacks and old-world garden with yew hedges trimmed fantastically as in the days of wigs and patches. I had snatched a week-end several times to be old Mrs. Mivart's guest; therefore I knew the picturesque old place well, and had been entranced by its many charms.

Soon after five o'clock that afternoon I descended from the train at the roadside station, and, mounting into the dog-cart, was driven across the hill to the Manor. In the hall the sweet-faced, silver-haired old lady, in her neat black and white cap greeted me, holding both my hands and pressing them for a moment, apparently unable to utter a word. I had expected to find her unwell; but, on the contrary, she seemed quite as active as usual, notwithstanding the senile decay which I knew had already laid its hand heavily upon her.

"You are so good to come to me, Doctor. How can I sufficiently thank you?" she managed to exclaim at last, leading me into the drawing-room, a long old-fashioned apartment with low ceiling supported by black oak beams, and quaint diamond-paned windows at each end.

"Well?" I inquired, when she had seated herself, and, with the evening light upon her face, I saw how blanched and anxious she was.

"I want to consult you, Doctor, upon a serious and confidential matter," she began, leaning forward, her thin white hands clasped in her lap. "We have not met since the terrible blow fell upon us—the death of poor Mary's husband."

"It must have been a great blow to you," I said sympathetically, for I liked the old lady, and realised how deeply she had suffered.

"Yes, but to poor Mary most of all," she said. "They were so happy together; and she was so devoted to him."

This was scarcely the truth; but mothers are often deceived as to their daughters' domestic felicity. A wife is always prone to hide her sorrows from her parents as far as possible. Therefore the old lady had no doubt been the victim of natural deception.

"Yes," I agreed; "it was a tragic and terrible thing. The mystery is quite unsolved."

"To me, the police are worse than useless," she said, in her slow, weak voice; "they don't seem to have exerted themselves in the least after that utterly useless inquest, with its futile verdict. As far as I can gather, not one single point has been cleared up."

"No," I said; "not one."

"And my poor Mary!" exclaimed old Mrs. Mivart; "she is beside herself with grief. Time seems to increase her melancholy, instead of bringing forgetfulness, as I hoped it would."

"Where is Mrs. Courtenay?" I asked.

"Here. She's been back with me for nearly a month. It was to see her, speak with her, and give me an opinion that I asked you to come down."

"Is she unwell?"

"I really don't know what ails her. She talks of her husband incessantly, calls him by name, and sometimes behaves so strangely that I have once or twice been much alarmed."

Her statement startled me. I had no idea that the young widow had taken the old gentleman's death so much to heart. As far as I had been able to judge, it seemed very much as though she had every desire to regain her freedom from a matrimonial bond that galled her. That she was grief-stricken over his death showed that I had entirely misjudged her character.

"Is she at home now?" I asked.

"Yes, in her own sitting-room—the room we used as a schoolroom when the girls were at home. Sometimes she mopes there all day, only speaking at meals. At others, she takes her dressing-bag and goes away for two or three days—just as the fancy takes her. She absolutely declines to have a maid."

"You mean that she's just a little—well, eccentric," I remarked seriously.

"Yes, Doctor," answered the old lady, in a strange voice quite unusual to her, and fixing her eyes upon me. "To tell the truth I fear her mind is slowly giving way."

I remained silent, thinking deeply; and as I did not reply, she added:

"You will meet her at dinner. I shall not let her know you are here. Then you can judge for yourself."

The situation was becoming more complicated. Since the conclusion of the inquest I had seen nothing of the widow. She had stayed several days with Ethelwynn at the Hennikers', then had visited her aunt near Bath. That was all I knew of her movements, for, truth to tell, I held her in some contempt for her giddy pleasure-seeking during her husband's illness. Surely a woman who had a single spark of affection for the man she had married could not go out each night to theatres and supper parties, leaving him to the care of his man and a nurse. That one fact alone proved that her professions of love had been hollow and false.

While the twilight fell I sat in that long, sombre old room that breathed an air of a century past, chatting with old Mrs. Mivart, and learning from her full particulars of Mary's eccentricities. My hostess told me of the proving of the will, which left the Devonshire estate to her daughter, and of the slow action of the executors. The young widow's actions, as described to me, were certainly strange, and made me strongly suspect that she was not quite responsible for them. That Mary's remorse was overwhelming was plain; and that fact aroused within my mind a very strong suspicion of a circumstance I had not before contemplated, namely, that during the life of her husband there had been a younger male attraction. The acuteness of her grief seemed proof of this. And yet, if argued logically, the existence of a secret lover should cause her to congratulate herself upon her liberty.

The whole situation was an absolute enigma.



CHAPTER XVI.

REVEALS AN ASTOUNDING FACT.

Dinner was announced, and I took Mrs. Mivart into the room on the opposite side of the big old-fashioned hall, a long, low-ceilinged apartment the size of the drawing-room, and hung with some fine old family portraits and miniatures. Old Squire Mivart had been an enthusiastic collector of antique china, and the specimens of old Montelupo and Urbino hanging upon the walls were remarkable as being the finest in any private collection in this country. Many were the visits he had made to Italy to acquire those queer-looking old mediaeval plates, with their crude colouring and rude, inartistic drawings, and certainly he was an acknowledged expert in antique porcelain.

The big red-shaded lamp in the centre of the table shed a soft light upon the snowy cloth, the flowers and the glittering silver; and as my hostess took her seat she sighed slightly, and for the first time asked of Ethelwynn.

"I haven't seen her for a week," I was compelled to admit. "Patients have been so numerous that I haven't had time to go out to see her, except at hours when calling at a friend's house was out of the question."

"Do you like the Hennikers?" her mother inquired, raising her eyes inquiringly to mine.

"Yes, I've found them very agreeable and pleasant."

"H'm," the old lady ejaculated dubiously. "Well, I don't. I met Mrs. Henniker once, and I must say that I did not care for her in the least. Ethelwynn is very fond of her, but to my mind she's fast, and not at all a suitable companion for a girl of my daughter's disposition. It may be that I have an old woman's prejudices, living as I do in the country always, but somehow I can never bring myself to like her."