Mrs. Mivart, like the majority of elderly widows who have given up the annual visit to London in the season, was a trifle behind the times. More charming an old lady could not be, but, in common with all who vegetate in the depths of rural England, she was just a trifle narrow-minded. In religion, she found fault constantly with the village parson, who, she declared, was guilty of ritualistic practices, and on the subject of her daughters she bemoaned the latter-day emancipation of women, which allowed them to go hither and thither at their own free will. Like all such mothers, she considered wealth a necessary adjunct to happiness, and it had been with her heartiest approval that Mary had married the unfortunate Courtenay, notwithstanding the difference between the ages of bride and bridegroom. In every particular the old lady was a typical specimen of the squire's widow, as found in rural England to-day.

Scarcely had we seated ourselves and I had replied to her question when the door opened and a slim figure in deep black entered and mechanically took the empty chair. She crossed the room, looking straight before her, and did not notice my presence until she had seated herself face to face with me.

Of a sudden her thin wan face lit up with a smile of recognition, and she cried:

"Why, Doctor! Wherever did you come from? No one told me you were here," and across the table she stretched out her hand in greeting.

"I thought you were reposing after your long walk this morning, dear; so I did not disturb you," her mother explained.

But, heedless of the explanation, she continued putting to me questions as to when I had left town, and the reason of my visit there. To the latter I returned an evasive answer, declaring that I had run down because I had heard that her mother was not altogether well.

"Yes, that's true," she said. "Poor mother has been very queer of late. She seems so distracted, and worries quite unnecessarily over me. I wish you'd give her advice. Her state causes me considerable anxiety."

"Very well," I said, feigning to laugh, "I must diagnose the ailment and see what can be done."

The soup had been served, and as I carried my spoon to my mouth I examined her furtively. My hostess had excused me from dressing, but her daughter, neat in her widow's collar and cuffs, sat prim and upright, her eyes now and then raised to mine in undisguised inquisitiveness.

She was a trifle paler than heretofore, but her pallor was probably rendered the more noticeable by the dead black she wore. Her hands seemed thin, and her fingers toyed nervously with her spoon in a manner that betrayed concealed agitation. Outwardly, however, I detected no extraordinary signs of either grief or anxiety. She spoke calmly, it was true, in the tone of one upon whom a great calamity had fallen, but that was only natural. I did not expect to find her bright, laughing, and light-hearted, like her old self in Richmond Road.

As dinner proceeded I began to believe that, with a fond mother's solicitude for her daughter's welfare, Mrs. Mivart had slightly exaggerated Mary's symptoms. They certainly were not those of a woman plunged in inconsolable grief, for she was neither mopish nor artificially gay. As far as I could detect, not even a single sigh escaped her.

She inquired of Ethelwynn and of the Hennikers, remarking that she had seen nothing of them for over three weeks; and then, when the servants had left the room, she placed her elbows upon the table, at the risk of a breach of good manners, and resting her chin upon her hands, looked me full in the face, saying:

"Now, tell me the truth, Doctor. What has been discovered regarding my poor husband's death? Have the police obtained any clue to the assassin?"

"None—none whatever, I regret to say," was my response.

"They are useless—worse than useless!" she burst forth angrily; "they blundered from the very first."

"That's entirely my own opinion, dear," her mother said. "Our police system nowadays is a mere farce. The foreigners are far ahead of us, even in the detection of crime. Surely the mystery of your poor husband's death might have been solved, if they had worked assiduously."

"I believe that everything that could be done has been done," I remarked. "The case was placed in the hands of two of the smartest and most experienced men at Scotland Yard, with personal instructions from the Superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department to leave no stone unturned in order to arrive at a successful issue."

"And what has been done?" asked the young widow, in a tone of discontent; "why, absolutely nothing! There has, I suppose, been a pretence at trying to solve the mystery; but, finding it too difficult, they have given it up, and turned their attention to some other crime more open and plain-sailing. I've no faith in the police whatever. It's scandalous!"

I smiled; then said:

"My friend, Ambler Jevons—you know him, for he dined at Richmond Road one evening—has been most active in the affair."

"But he's not a detective. How can he expect to triumph where the police fail?"

"He often does," I declared. "His methods are different from the hard-and-fast rules followed by the police. He commences at whatever point presents itself, and laboriously works backwards with a patience that is absolutely extraordinary. He has unearthed a dozen crimes where Scotland Yard has failed."

"And is he engaged upon my poor husband's case?" asked Mary, suddenly interested.

"Yes."

"For what reason?"

"Well—because he is one of those for whom a mystery of crime has a fascinating attraction."

"But he must have some motive in devoting time and patience to a matter which does not concern him in the least," Mrs. Mivart remarked.

"Whatever is the motive, I can assure you that it is an entirely disinterested one," I said.

"But what has he discovered? Tell me," Mary urged.

"I am quite in ignorance," I said. "We are most intimate friends, but when engaged on such investigations he tells me nothing of their result until they are complete. All I know is that so active is he at this moment that I seldom see him. He is often tied to his office in the City, but has, I believe, recently been on a flying visit abroad for two or three days."

"Abroad!" she echoed. "Where?"

"I don't know. I met a mutual friend in the Strand yesterday, and he told me that he had returned yesterday."

"Has he been abroad in connection with his inquiries, do you think?" Mrs. Mivart inquired.

"I really don't know. Probably he has. When he takes up a case he goes into it with a greater thoroughness than any detective living."

"Yes," Mary remarked, "I recollect, now, the stories you used to tell us regarding him—of his exciting adventures—of his patient tracking of the guilty ones, and of his marvellous ingenuity in laying traps to get them to betray themselves. I recollect quite well that evening he came to Richmond Road with you. He was a most interesting man."

"Let us hope he will be more successful than the police," I said.

"Yes, Doctor," she remarked, sighing for the first time. "I hope he will—for the mystery of it all drives me to distraction." Then placing both hands to her brow, she added, "Ah! if we could only discover the truth—the real truth!"

"Have patience," I urged. "A complicated mystery such as it is cannot be cleared up without long and careful inquiry."

"But in the months that have gone by surely the police should have at least made some discovery?" she said, in a voice of complaint; "yet they have not the slightest clue."

"We can only wait," I said. "Personally, I have confidence in Jevons. If there is a clue to be obtained, depend upon it he will scent it out."

I did not tell them of my misgivings, nor did I explain how Ambler, having found himself utterly baffled, had told me of his intention to relinquish further effort. The flying trip abroad might be in connection with the case, but I felt confident that it was not. He knew, as well as I did, that the truth was to be found in England.

Again we spoke of Ethelwynn; and from Mary's references to her sister I gathered that a slight coolness had fallen between them. She did not, somehow, speak of her in the same terms of affection as formerly. It might be that she shared her mother's prejudices, and did not approve of her taking up her abode with the Hennikers. Be it how it might, there were palpable signs of strained relations.

Could it be possible, I wondered, that Mary had learnt of her sister's secret engagement to her husband?

I looked full at her as that thought flashed through my mind. Yes, she presented a picture of sweet and interesting widowhood. In her voice, as in her countenance, was just that slight touch of grief which told me plainly that she was a heart-broken, remorseful woman—a woman, like many another, who knew not the value of a tender, honest and indulgent husband until he had been snatched from her. Mother and daughter, both widows, were a truly sad and sympathetic pair.

As we spoke I watched her eyes, noted her every movement attentively, but failed utterly to discern any suggestion of what her mother had remarked.

Once, at mention of her dead husband, she had of a sudden exclaimed in a low voice, full of genuine emotion:

"Ah, yes. He was so kind, so good always. I cannot believe that he will never come back," and she burst into tears, which her mother, with a word of apology to me, quietly soothed away.

When we arose I accompanied them to the drawing-room; but without any music, and with Mary's sad, half-tragic countenance before us, the evening was by no means a merry one; therefore I was glad when, in pursuance of the country habit of retiring early, the maid brought my candle and showed me to my room.

It was not yet ten o'clock, and feeling in no mood for sleep, I took from my bag the novel I had been reading on my journey and, throwing myself into an armchair, first gave myself up to deep reflection over a pipe, and afterwards commenced to read.

The chiming of the church clock down in the village aroused me, causing me to glance at my watch. It was midnight. I rose, and going to the window, pulled aside the blind, and looked out upon the rural view lying calm and mysterious beneath the brilliant moonlight.

How different was that peaceful aspect to the one to which I was, alas! accustomed—that long blank wall in the Marylebone Road. There the cab bells tinkled all night, market wagons rumbled through till dawn, and the moonbeams revealed drunken revellers after "closing time."

A strong desire seized me to go forth and enjoy the splendid night. Such a treat of peace and solitude was seldom afforded me, stifled as I was by the disinfectants in hospital wards and the variety of perfumes and pastilles in the rooms of wealthy patients. Truly the life of a London doctor is the most monotonous and laborious of any of the learned professions, and little wonder is it that when the jaded medico finds himself in the country or by the sea he seldom fails to take his fill of fresh air.

At first a difficulty presented itself in letting myself out unheard; but I recollected that in the new wing of the house, in which I had been placed, there were no other bedrooms, therefore with a little care I might descend undetected. So taking my hat and stick I opened the door, stole noiselessly down the stairs, and in a few minutes had made an adventurous exit by a window—fearing the grating bolts of the door—and was soon strolling across the grounds by the private path, which I knew led through the churchyard and afterwards down to the river-bank.

With Ethelwynn I had walked across the meadows by that path on several occasions, and in the dead silence of the brilliant night vivid recollections of a warm summer's evening long past came back to me—sweet remembrances of days when we were childishly happy in each other's love.

Nothing broke the quiet save the shrill cry of some night bird down by the river, and the low roar of the distant weir. The sky was cloudless, and the moon so bright that I could have read a newspaper. I strolled on slowly, breathing the refreshing air, and thinking deeply over the complications of the situation. In the final hour I had spent in the drawing-room I had certainly detected in the young widow a slight eccentricity of manner, not at all accentuated, but yet sufficient to show me that she had been strenuously concealing her grief during my presence there.

Having swung myself over the stile I passed round the village churchyard, where the moss-grown gravestones stood grim and ghostly in the white light, and out across the meadows down to where the waters of the Nene, rippling on, were touched with silver. The river-path was wide, running by the winding bank away to the fen-lands and beyond. As I gained the river's edge and walked beneath the willows I heard now and then a sharp, swift rustling in the sedges as some water-rat or otter, disturbed by my presence, slipped away into hiding. The rural peace of that brilliant night attracted me, and finding a hurdle I seated myself upon it, and taking out my pipe enjoyed a smoke.

Ever since my student days I had longed for a country life. The pleasures of the world of London had no attraction for me, my ideal being a snug country practice with Ethelwynn as my wife. But alas! my idol had been shattered, like that of many a better man.

With this bitter reflection still in my mind, my attention was attracted by low voices—as though of two persons speaking earnestly together. Surprised at such interruption, I glanced quickly around, but saw no one.

Again I listened, when, of a sudden, footsteps sounded, coming down the path I had already traversed. Beneath the deep shadow I saw the dark figures of two persons. They were speaking together, but in a tone so low that I could not catch any word uttered.

Nevertheless, as they emerged from the semi-darkness the moon shone full upon them, revealing to me that they were a man and a woman.

Next instant a cry of blank amazement escaped me, for I was utterly unprepared for the sight I witnessed. I could not believe my eyes; nor could you, my reader, had you been in my place.

The woman walking there, close to me, was young Mrs. Courtenay—the man was none other than her dead husband!



CHAPTER XVII.

DISCUSSES SEVERAL MATTERS.

Reader, I know that what I have narrated is astounding. It astounded me just as it astounded you.

There are moments when one's brain becomes dulled by sudden bewilderment at sight of the absolutely impossible.

It certainly seemed beyond credence that the man whose fatal and mysterious wound I had myself examined should be there, walking with his wife in lover-like attitude. And yet there was no question that the pair were there. A small bush separated us, so that they passed arm-in-arm within three feet of me. As I have already explained, the moon was so bright that I could see to read; therefore, shining full upon their faces, it was impossible to mistake the features of two persons whom I knew so well.

Fortunately they had not overheard my involuntary exclamation of astonishment, or, if they had, both evidently believed it to be one of the many distorted sounds of the night. Upon Mary's face there was revealed a calm expression of perfect content, different indeed from the tearful countenance of a few hours before, while her husband, grey-faced and serious, just as he had been before his last illness, had her arm linked in his, and walked with her, whispering some low indistinct words which brought to her lips a smile of perfect felicity.

Now had I been a superstitious man I should have promptly declared the whole thing to have been an apparition. But as I do not believe in borderland theories, any more than I believe that a man whose heart is nearly cut in twain can again breathe and live, I could only stand aghast, bewildered and utterly dumfounded.

Hidden from them by a low thorn-bush, I stood in silent stupefaction as they passed by. That it was no chimera of the imagination was proved by the fact that their footsteps sounded upon the path, and just as they had passed I heard Courtenay address his wife by name. The transformation of her countenance from the ineffable picture of grief and sorrow to the calm, sweet expression of content had been marvellous, to say the least—an event stranger, indeed, than any I had ever before witnessed. In the wild writings of the old romancers the dead have sometimes been resuscitated, but never in this workaday world of ours. There is a finality in death that is decisive.

Yet, as I here write these lines, I stake my professional reputation that the man I saw was the same whom I had seen dead in that upper room in Kew. I knew his gait, his cough, and his countenance too well to mistake his identity.

That night's adventure was certainly the most startling, and at the same time the most curious, that ever befel a man. Thus I became seized with curiosity, and at risk of detection crept forth from my hiding-place and looked out after them. To betray my presence would be to bar from myself any chance of learning the secret of it all; therefore I was compelled to exercise the greatest caution. Mary mourned the loss of her husband towards the world, and yet met him in secret at night—wandering with him by that solitary bye-path along which no villager ever passed after dark, and lovers avoided because of the popular tradition that a certain unfortunate Lady of the Manor of a century ago "walked" there. In the fact of the mourning so well feigned I detected the concealment of some remarkable secret.

The situation was, without doubt, an extraordinary one. The man upon whose body I had made a post-mortem examination was alive and well, walking with his wife, although for months before his assassination he had been a bed-ridden invalid. Such a thing was startling, incredible! Little wonder was it that at first I could scarce believe my own eyes. Only when I looked full into his face and recognised his features, with all their senile peculiarities, did the amazing truth become impressed upon me.

Around the bend in the river I stole stealthily after them, in order to watch their movements, trying to catch their conversation, although, unfortunately, it was in too low an undertone. He never released her arm or changed his affectionate attitude towards her, but appeared to be relating to her some long and interesting chain of events to which she listened with rapt attention.

Along the river's edge, out in the open moonlight, it was difficult to follow them without risk of observation. Now and then the elder-bushes and drooping willows afforded cover beneath their deep shadow, but in places where the river wound through the open water-meadows my presence might at any moment be detected. Therefore the utmost ingenuity and caution were necessary.

Having made the staggering discovery, I was determined to thoroughly probe the mystery. The tragedy of old Mr. Courtenay's death had resolved itself into a romance of the most mysterious and startling character. As I crept forward over the grass, mostly on tiptoe, so as to avoid the sound of my footfalls, I tried to form some theory to account for the bewildering circumstance, but could discern absolutely none.

Mary was still wearing her mourning; but about her head was wrapped a white silk shawl, and on her shoulders a small fur cape, for the spring night was chilly. Her husband had on a dark overcoat and soft felt hat of the type he always wore, and carried in his hand a light walking-stick. Once or twice he halted when he seemed to be impressing his words the more forcibly upon her, and then I was compelled to stop also and to conceal myself. I would have given much to overhear the trend of their conversation, but strive how I would I was unable. They seemed to fear eavesdroppers, and only spoke in low half-whispers.

I noticed how old Mr. Courtenay kept from time to time glancing around him, as though in fear of detection; hence I was in constant dread lest he should look behind him and discover me slinking along their path. I am by no means an adept at following persons, but in this case the stake was so great—the revelation of some startling and unparalleled mystery—that I strained every nerve and every muscle to conceal my presence while pushing forward after them.

Picture to yourself for a moment my position. The whole of my future happiness, and consequently my prosperity in life, was at stake at that instant. To clear up the mystery successfully might be to clear my love of the awful stigma upon her. To watch and to listen was the only way; but the difficulties in the dead silence of the night were well-nigh insurmountable, for I dare not approach sufficiently near to catch a single word. I had crept on after them for about a mile, until we were approaching the tumbling waters of the weir. The dull roar swallowed up the sound of their voices, but it assisted me, for I had no further need to tread noiselessly.

On nearing the lock-keeper's cottage, a little white-washed house wherein the inmates were sleeping soundly, they made a wide detour around the meadow, in order to avoid the chance of being seen. Mary was well known to the old lock-keeper who had controlled those great sluices for thirty years or more, and she knew that at night he was often compelled to be on duty, and might at that very moment be sitting on the bench outside his house, smoking his short clay.

I, however, had no such fear. Stepping lightly upon the grass beside the path I went past the house and continued onward by the riverside, passing at once into the deep shadow of the willows, which effectually concealed me.

The pair were walking at the same slow, deliberate pace beneath the high hedge on the further side of the meadow, evidently intending to rejoin the river-path some distance further up. This gave me an opportunity to get on in front of them, and I seized it without delay; for I was anxious to obtain another view of the face of the man whom I had for months believed to be in his grave.

Keeping in the shadow of the trees and bushes that overhung the stream, I sped onward for ten minutes or more until I came to the boundary of the great pasture, passing through the swing gate by which I felt confident that they must also pass. I turned to look before leaving the meadow, and could just distinguish their figures. They had turned at right angles, and, as I had expected, were walking in my direction.

Forward I went again, and after some hurried search discovered a spot close to the path where concealment behind a great old tree seemed possible; so at that coign of vantage I waited breathlessly for their approach. The roaring of the waters behind would, I feared, prevent any of their words from reaching me; nevertheless, I waited anxiously.

A great barn owl flapped lazily past, hooting weirdly as it went; then all nature became still again, save the dull sound of the tumbling flood. Ambler Jevons, had he been with me, would, no doubt, have acted differently. But it must be remembered that I was the merest tyro in the unravelling of a mystery, whereas, with him, it was a kind of natural occupation. And yet would he believe me when I told him that I had actually seen the dead man walking there with his wife?

I was compelled to admit within myself that such a statement from the lips of any man would be received with incredulity. Indeed, had such a thing been related to me, I should have put the narrator down as either a liar or a lunatic.

At last they came. I remained motionless, standing in the shadow, not daring to breathe. My eyes were fixed upon him, my ears strained to catch every sound.

He said something to her. What it was I could not gather. Then he pushed open the creaking gate to allow her to pass. Across the moon's face had drifted a white, fleecy cloud; therefore the light was not so brilliant as half an hour before. Still, I could see his features almost as plainly as I see this paper upon which I am penning my strange adventure, and could recognise every lineament and peculiarity of his countenance.

Having passed through the gate, he took her ungloved hand with an air of old-fashioned gallantry and raised it to his lips. She laughed merrily in rapturous content, and then slowly, very slowly, they strolled along the path that ran within a few feet of where I stood.

My heart leapt with excitement. Their voices sounded above the rushing of the waters, and they were lingering as though unwilling to walk further.

"Ethelwynn has told me," he was saying. "I can't make out the reason of his coldness towards her. Poor girl! she seems utterly heart-broken."

"He suspects," his wife replied.

"But what ground has he for suspicion?"

I stood there transfixed. They were talking of myself!

They had halted quite close to where I was, and in that low roar had raised their voices so that I could distinguish every word.

"Well," remarked his wife, "the whole affair was mysterious, that you must admit. With his friend, a man named Jevons, he has been endeavouring to solve the problem."

"A curse on Ambler Jevons!" he blurted forth in anger, as though he were well acquainted with my friend.

"If between them they managed to get at the truth it would be very awkward," she said.

"No fear of that," he laughed in full confidence. "A man once dead and buried, with a coroner's verdict upon him, is not easily believed to be alive and well. No, my dear; rest assured that these men will never get at our secret—never."

I smiled within myself. How little did he dream that the man of whom he had been speaking was actually overhearing his words!

"But Ethelwynn, in order to regain her place in the doctor's heart, may betray us," his wife remarked dubiously.

"She dare not," was the reply. "From her we have nothing whatever to fear. As long as you keep up the appearance of deep mourning, are discreet in all your actions, and exercise proper caution on the occasions when we meet, our secret must remain hidden from all."

"But I am doubtful of Ethelwynn. A woman as fondly in love with a man, as she is with Ralph, is apt to throw discretion to the winds," the woman observed. "Recollect that the breach between them is on our account, and that a word from her could expose the whole thing, and at the same time bring back to her the man for whose lost love she is pining. It is because of that I am in constant fear."

"Your apprehensions are entirely groundless," he declared in a decisive voice. "She's the only other person in the secret besides ourselves; but to betray us would be fatal to her."

"She may consider that she has made sufficient self-sacrifice?"

"Then all the greater reason why she should remain silent. She has her reputation to lose by divulging."

By his argument she appeared only half-convinced, for I saw upon her brow a heavy, thoughtful expression, similar to that I had noticed when sitting opposite her at dinner. The reason of her constant preoccupation was that she feared that her sister might give me the clue to her secret.

That a remarkable conspiracy had been in progress was now made quite plain; and, further, one very valuable fact I had ascertained was that Ethelwynn was the only other person who knew the truth, and yet dared not reveal it.

This man who stood before me was old Mr. Courtenay, without a doubt. That being so, who could have been the unfortunate man who had been struck to the heart so mysteriously?

So strange and complicated were all the circumstances, and so cleverly had the chief actors in the drama arranged its details, that Courtenay himself was convinced that for others to learn the truth was utterly impossible. Yet it was more than remarkable that he sought not to disguise his personal appearance if he wished to remain dead to the world. Perhaps, however, being unknown in that rural district—for he once had told me that he had never visited his wife's home since his marriage—he considered himself perfectly safe from recognition. Besides, from their conversation I gathered that they only met on rare occasions, and certainly Mary kept up the fiction of mourning with the greatest assiduity.

I recollected what old Mrs. Mivart had told me of her daughter's erratic movements; of her short mysterious absences with her dressing-bag and without a maid. It was evident that she made flying visits in various directions in order to meet her "dead" husband.

Courtenay spoke again, after a brief silence, saying:

"I had no idea that the doctor was down here, or I should have kept away. To be seen by him would expose the whole affair."

"I was quite ignorant of his visit until I went in to dinner and found him already seated at table," she answered. "But he will leave to-morrow. He said to-night that to remain away from his patients for a single day was very difficult."

"Is he down here in pursuance of his inquiries, do you think?" suggested her husband.

"He may be. Mother evidently knew of his impending arrival, but told me nothing. I was annoyed, for he was the very last person I wished to meet."

"Well, he'll go in the morning, so we have nothing to fear. He's safe enough in bed, and sleeping soundly—confound him!"

The temptation was great to respond aloud to the compliment; but I refrained, laughing within myself at the valuable information I was obtaining.



CHAPTER XVIII.

WORDS OF THE DEAD.

Justice is always vigilant—it stops not to weigh causes or motives, but overtakes the criminal, no matter whether his deeds be the suggestion of malice or the consequence of provoked revenge. I was all eagerness to face the pair in the full light and demand an explanation, yet I hesitated, fearing lest precipitation might prevent me gaining knowledge of the truth.

That they had no inclination to walk further was evident, for they still stood there in conversation, facing each other and speaking earnestly. I listened attentively to every word, my heart thumping so loudly that I wondered they did not hear its excited pulsations.

"You've seen nothing of Sir Bernard?" she was saying.

"Sir Bernard!" he echoed. "Why, of course not. To him I am dead and buried, just as I am to the rest of the world. My executors have proved my will at Somerset House, and very soon you will receive its benefits. To meet the old doctor would be to reveal the whole thing."

"It is all so strange," she said with a low sigh, "that sometimes, when I am alone, I can't believe it to be true. We have deceived the world so completely."

"Of course. That was my intention."

"But could it not have been done without the sacrifice of that man's life?" she queried. "Remember! The crime of murder was committed."

"You are only dreaming!" he replied, in a hard voice. "A mystery was necessary for our success."

"And it is a mystery which has entirely baffled the police in every particular."

"As I intended it should. I laid my plans with care, so that there should be no hitch or point by which Scotland Yard could obtain a clue."

"But our future life?" she murmured. "When may I return again to you? At present I am compelled to feign mourning, and present a perfect picture of interesting widowhood; but—but I hate this playing at death."

"Have patience, dear," he urged in a sympathetic tone. "For the moment we must remain entirely apart, holding no communication with each other save in secret, on the first and fifteenth day of every month as we arranged. As soon as I find myself in a position of safety we will disappear together, and you will leave the world wondering at the second mystery following upon the first."

"In how long a time do you anticipate?" she asked, looking earnestly into his eyes.

"A few months at most," was his answer. "If it were possible you should return to me at once; but you know how strange and romantic is my life, compelled to disguise my personality, and for ever moving from place to place, like the Wandering Jew. To return to me at present is quite impossible. Besides—you are in the hands of the executors; and before long must be in evidence in order to receive my money."

"Money is useless to me without happiness," she declared, in a voice of complaint. "My position at present is one of constant dread."

"Whom and what do you fear?"

"I believe that Dr. Boyd has some vague suspicion of the truth," she responded, after a pause.

"What?" he cried, in quick surprise. "Tell me why. Explain it all to me."

"There is nothing to explain—save that to-night he seemed to regard my movements with suspicion."

"Ah! my dear, your fears are utterly groundless," he laughed. "What can the fellow possibly know? He is assured that I am dead, for he signed my certificate and followed me to my grave at Woking. A man who attends his friend's funeral has no suspicion that the dead is still living, depend upon it. If there is any object in this world that is convincing it is a corpse."

"I merely tell you the result of my observations," she said. "In my opinion he has come here to learn what he can."

"He can learn nothing," answered the "dead" man. "If it were his confounded friend Jevons, now, we might have some apprehension; for the ingenuity of that man is, I've heard, absolutely astounding. Even Scotland Yard seeks his aid in the solving of the more difficult criminal problems."

"I tell you plainly that I fear Ethelwynn may expose us," his wife went on slowly, a distinctly anxious look upon her countenance. "As you know, there is a coolness between us, and rather than risk losing the doctor altogether she may make a clean breast of the affair."

"No, no, my dear. Rest assured that she will never betray us," answered Courtenay, with a light reassuring laugh. "True, you are not very friendly, yet you must recollect that she and I are friends. Her interests are identical with our own; therefore to expose us would be to expose herself at the same time."

"A woman sometimes acts without forethought."

"Quite true; but Ethelwynn is not one of those. She's careful to preserve her own position in the eyes of her lover, knowing quite well that to tell the truth would be to expose her own baseness. A man may overlook many offences in the woman he loves, but this particular one of which she is guilty a man never forgives."

His words went deep into my heart. Was not this further proof that the crime—for undoubtedly a crime had been accomplished in that house at Kew—had been committed by the hand of the woman I so fondly loved? All was so amazing, so utterly bewildering, that I stood there concealed by the tree, motionless as though turned to stone.

There was a motive wanting in it all. Yet I ask you who read this narrative of mine if, like myself, you would not have been staggered into dumbness at seeing and hearing a man whom you had certified to be dead, moving and speaking, and, moreover, in his usual health?

"He loves her!" his wife exclaimed, speaking of me. "He would forgive her anything. My own opinion is that if we would be absolutely secure it is for us to heal the breach between them."

He remained thoughtful for a few moments, apparently in doubt as to the wisdom of acting upon her suggestion. Surely in the situation was an element of humor, for, happily, I was being forearmed.

"It might possibly be good policy," he remarked at last. "If we could only bring them together again he would cease his constant striving to solve the enigma. We know well that he can never do that; nevertheless his constant efforts are as annoying as they are dangerous."

"That's just my opinion. There is danger to us in his constant inquiries, which are much more ingenious and careful than we imagine."

"Well, my child," he said, "you've stuck to me in this in a manner that few women would have dared. If you really think it necessary to bring Boyd and Ethelwynn together again you must do it entirely alone, for I could not possibly appear on the scene. He must never meet me, or the whole thing would be revealed."

"For your sake I am prepared to make the attempt," she said. "The fact of being Ethelwynn's sister gives me freedom to speak my mind to him."

"And to tell him some pretty little fiction about her?" he added, laughing.

"Yes. It will certainly be necessary to put an entirely innocent face on recent events in order to smooth matters over," she admitted, joining in his laughter.

"Rather a difficult task to make the affair at Kew appear innocent," he observed. "But you're really a wonderful woman, Mary. The way you've acted your part in this affair is simply marvellous. You've deceived everyone—even that old potterer, Sir Bernard himself."

"I've done it for your sake," was her response. "I made a promise, and I've kept it. Up to the present we are safe, but we cannot take too many precautions. We have enemies and scandal-seekers on every side."

"I admit that," he replied, rather impatiently, I thought. "If you think it a wise course you had better lose no time in placing Ethelwynn's innocence before her lover. You will see him in the morning, I suppose?"

"Probably not. He leaves by the eight o'clock train," she said. "When my plans are matured I will call upon him in London."

"And if any woman can deceive him, you can, Mary," he laughed. "In those widow's weeds of yours you could deceive the very devil himself!"

Mrs. Courtenay's airy talk of deception threw an entirely fresh light upon her character. Hitherto I had held her in considerable esteem as a woman who, being bored to death by the eccentricities of her invalid husband, had sought distraction with her friends in town, but nevertheless honest and devoted to the man she had wedded. But these words of hers caused doubt to arise within my mind. That she had been devoted to her husband's interest was proved by the clever imposture she was practising; indeed it seemed to me very much as if those frequent visits to town had been at the "dead" man's suggestion and with his entire consent. But the more I reflected upon the extraordinary details of the tragedy and its astounding denouement, the more hopeless and maddening became the problem.

"I shall probably go to town to-morrow," she exclaimed, after smiling at his declaration. "Where are you in hiding just now?"

"In Birmingham. A large town is safer than a village. I return by the six o'clock train, and go again into close concealment."

"But you know people in Birmingham, don't you? We stayed there once with some people called Tremlett, I recollect."

"Ah, yes," he laughed. "But I am careful to avoid them. The district in which I live is far removed from them. Besides, I never by any chance go out by day. I'm essentially a nocturnal roamer."

"And when shall we meet again?"

"By appointment, in the usual way."

"At the usual place?" she asked.

"There can be no better, I think. It does not take you from home, and I am quite unknown down here."

"If any of the villagers ever discovered us they might talk, and declare that I met a secret lover," she laughed.

"If you are ever recognised, which I don't anticipate is probable, we can at once change our place of meeting. At present there is no necessity for changing it."

"Then, in the meantime, I will exercise my woman's diplomacy to effect peace between Ethelwynn and the doctor," she said. "It is the only way by which we can obtain security."

"For the life of me I can't discern the reason of his coolness towards her," remarked my "dead" patient.

"He suspects her."

"Of what?"

"Suspects the truth. She has told me so."

Old Henry Courtenay grunted in dissatisfaction.

"Hasn't she tried to convince him to the contrary?" he asked. "I was always under the impression that she could twist him round her finger—so hopelessly was he in love with her."

"So she could before this unfortunate affair."

"And now that he suspects the truth he's disinclined to have any more to do with her—eh? Well," he added, "after all, it's only natural. She's not so devilish clever as you, Mary, otherwise she would never have allowed herself to fall beneath suspicion. She must have somehow blundered."

"To-morrow I shall go to town," she said in a reflective voice. "No time should be lost in effecting the reconciliation between them."

"You are right," he declared. "You should commence at once. Call and talk with him. He believes so entirely in you. But promise me one thing; that you will not go to Ethelwynn," he urged.

"Why not?"

"Because it is quite unnecessary," he answered. "You are not good friends; therefore your influence upon the doctor should be a hidden one. She will believe that he has returned to her of his own free will; hence our position will be rendered the stronger. Act diplomatically. If she believes that you are interesting yourself in her affairs it may anger her."

"Then you suggest that I should call upon the doctor in secret, and try and influence him in her favour without her being aware of it?"

"Exactly. After the reconciliation is effected you may tell her. At present, however, it is not wise to show our hand. By your visit to the doctor you may be able to obtain from him how much he knows, and what are his suspicions. One thing is certain, that with all his shrewdness he doesn't dream the truth."

"Who would?" she asked with a smile. "If the story were told, nobody would believe it."

"That's just it! The incredibility of the whole affair is what places us in such a position of security; for as long as I lie low and you continue to act the part of the interesting widow, nobody can possibly get at the truth."

"I think I've acted my part well, up to the present," she said, "and I hope to continue to do so. To influence the doctor will be a difficult task, I fear. But I'll do my utmost, because I see that by the reconciliation Ethelwynn's lips would be sealed."

"Act with discretion, my dear," urged the old man. "But remember that Boyd is not a man to be trifled with—and as for that accursed friend of his, Ambler Jevons, he seems second cousin to the very King of Darkness himself."

"Never fear," she laughed confidently. "Leave it to me—leave all to me."

And then, agreeing that it was time they went back, they turned, retraced their steps, and passing through the small gate into the meadow, were soon afterwards lost to sight.

Truly my night's adventure had been as strange and startling as any that has happened to living man, for what I had seen and heard opened up a hundred theories, each more remarkable and tragic than the other, until I stood utterly dumfounded and aghast.



CHAPTER XIX.

JEVONS GROWS MYSTERIOUS.

On coming down to breakfast on the following morning I found Mrs. Mivart awaiting me alone. The old lady apologised for Mary's non-appearance, saying that it was her habit to have her tea in her room, but that she sent me a message of farewell.

Had it been at all possible I would have left by a later train, for I was extremely anxious to watch her demeanour after last night's clandestine meeting, but with such a crowd of patients awaiting me it was imperative to leave by the first train. Even that would not bring me to King's Cross before nearly eleven o'clock.

"Well now, doctor," Mrs. Mivart commenced rather anxiously when we were seated, and she had handed me my coffee. "You saw Mary last night, and had an opportunity of speaking with her. What is your opinion? Don't hesitate to tell me frankly, for I consider that it is my duty to face the worst."

"Really!" I exclaimed, looking straight at her after a moment's reflection. "To speak candidly I failed to detect anything radically wrong in your daughter's demeanour."

"But didn't you notice, doctor, how extremely nervous she is; how in her eyes there is a haunting, suspicious look, and how blank is her mind upon every other subject but the great calamity that has befallen her?"

"I must really confess that these things were not apparent to me," I answered. "I watched her carefully, but beyond the facts that she is greatly unnerved by the sad affair and that she is mourning deeply for her dead husband, I can discover nothing abnormal."

"You are not of opinion, then, that her mind is growing unbalanced by the strain?"

"Not in the least," I reassured her. "The symptoms she betrays are but natural in a woman of her nervous, highly-strung temperament."

"But she unfortunately grieves too much," remarked the old lady with a sigh. "His name is upon her lips at every hour. I've tried to distract her and urged her to accompany me abroad for a time, but all to no purpose. She won't hear of it."

I alone knew the reason of her refusal. In conspiracy with her "dead" husband it was impossible to be apart from him for long together. The undue accentuation of her daughter's feigned grief had alarmed the old lady—and justly so. Now that I recollected, her conduct at table on the previous night was remarkable, having regard to the true facts of the case. I confess I had myself been entirely deceived into believing that her sorrow at Henry Courtenay's death was unbounded. In every detail her acting was perfect, and bound to attract sympathy among her friends and arouse interest among strangers. I longed to explain to the quiet, charming old lady what I had seen during my midnight ramble; but such a course was, as yet, impossible. Indeed, if I made a plain statement, such as I have given in the foregoing pages, surely no one would believe me. But every man has his romance, and this was mine.

Unable to reveal Mary's secret, I was compelled reluctantly to take leave of her mother, who accompanied me out to where the dog-cart was in waiting.

"I scarcely know, doctor, how to thank you sufficiently," the dear old lady said as I took her hand. "What you have told me reassures me. Of late I have been extremely anxious, as you may imagine."

"You need feel no anxiety," I declared. "She's nervous and run down—that's all. Take her away for a change, if possible. But if she refuses, don't force her. Quiet is the chief medicine in her case. Good-bye."

She pressed my hand again in grateful acknowledgment, and then I mounted into the conveyance and was driven to the station.

On the journey back to town I pondered long and deeply. Of a verity my short visit to Mrs. Mivart had been fraught with good results, and I was contemplating seeking Ambler Jevons at the earliest possible moment and relating to him my astounding discovery. The fact that old Courtenay was still living was absolutely beyond my comprehension. To endeavour to form any theory, or to try and account for the bewildering phenomenon, was utterly useless. I had seen him, and had overheard his words. I could surely believe my eyes and ears. And there it ended. The why and wherefore I put aside for the present, remembering Mary's promise to him to come to town and have an interview with me.

Surely that meeting ought to be most interesting. I awaited it with the most intense anxiety, and yet in fear lest I might be led by her clever imposture to blurt out what I knew. I felt myself on the eve of a startling revelation; and my expectations were realized to the full, as the further portion of this strange romance will show.

I know that many narratives have been written detailing the remarkable and almost inconceivable machinations of those who have stained their hands with crime, but I honestly believe that the extraordinary features of my own life-romance are as strange as, if not stranger than, any hitherto recorded. Even my worst enemy could not dub me egotistical, I think; and surely the facts I have set down here are plain and unvarnished, without any attempt at misleading the reader into believing that which is untrue. Mine is a plain chronicle of a chain of extraordinary circumstances which led to an amazing denouement.

From King's Cross to Guy's is a considerable distance, and when I alighted from the cab in the courtyard of the hospital it was nearly mid-day. Until two o'clock I was kept busy in the wards, and after a sandwich and a glass of sherry I drove to Harley Street, where I found Sir Bernard in his consulting-room for the first time for a month.

"Ah! Boyd," he cried merrily, when I entered. "Thought I'd surprise you to-day. I felt quite well this morning, so resolved to come up and see Lady Twickenham and one or two others. I'm not at home to patients, and have left them to you."

"Delighted to see you better," I declared, wringing his hand. "They were asking after you at the hospital to-day. Vernon said he intended going down to see you to-morrow."

"Kind of him," the old man laughed, placing his thin hands together, after rubbing and readjusting his glasses. "You were away last night; out of town, they said."

"Yes, I wanted a breath of fresh air," I answered, laughing. I did not care to tell him where I had been, knowing that he held my love for Ethelwynn as the possible ruin of my career.

His curiosity seemed aroused; but, although he put to me an ingenious question, I steadfastly refused to satisfy him. I recollected too well his open condemnation of my love on previous occasions. Now that the "murdered" man was proved to be still alive, I surely had no further grounds for my suspicion of Ethelwynn. That she had, by her silence, deceived me regarding her engagement to Mr. Courtenay was plain, but the theory that it was her hand that had assassinated him was certainly disproved. Thus, although the discovery of the "dead" man's continued existence deepened the mystery a thousandfold, it nevertheless dispelled from my heart a good deal of the suspicion regarding my well-beloved; and, in consequence, I was not desirous that any further hostile word should be uttered against her.

While Sir Bernard went out to visit her ladyship and two or three other nervous women living in the same neighbourhood, I seated myself in his chair and saw the afternoon callers one after another. I fear that the advice I gave during those couple of hours was not very notable for its shrewdness or brilliancy. As in other professions, so in medicine, when one's brain is overflowing with private affairs, one cannot attend properly to patients. On such occasions one is apt to ask the usual questions mechanically, hear the replies and scribble a prescription of some harmless formula. On the afternoon in question I certainly believe myself guilty of such lapse of professional attention. Yet even we doctors are human, although our patients frequently forget that fact. The medico is a long-suffering person, even in these days of scarcity of properly-qualified men—the first person called on emergency, and the very last to be paid!

It was past five o'clock before I was able to return to my rooms, and on arrival I found upon my table a note from Jevons. It was dated from the Yorick Club, a small but exceedingly comfortable Bohemian centre in Bedford Street, Covent Garden, and had evidently been written hurriedly on the previous night:—

"I hear you are absent in the country. That is unfortunate. But as soon as you receive this, lose no time in calling at the Hennikers' and making casual inquiries regarding Miss Mivart. Something has happened, but what it is I have failed to discover. You stand a better chance. Go at once. I must leave for Bath to-night. Address me at the Royal Hotel, G. W. Station.

"AMBLER JEVONS."

What could have transpired? And why had my friend's movements been so exceedingly erratic of late, if he had not been following some clue? Would that clue lead him to the truth, I wondered? Or was he still suspicious of Ethelwynn's guilt?

Puzzled by this vague note, and wondering what had occurred, and whether the trip to Bath was in connection with it, I made a hasty toilet and drove in a hansom to the Hennikers'.

Mrs. Henniker met me in the drawing-room, just as gushing and charming as ever. She was one of those many women in London who seek to hang on to the skirts of polite society by reason of a distant connexion being a countess—a fact of which she never failed to remind the stranger before half-an-hour's acquaintance. She found it always a pleasant manner in which to open a conversation at dinner, dance, or soiree: "Oh! do you happen to know my cousin, Lady Nassington?" She never sufficiently realised it as bad form, and therefore in her own circle was known among the women, who jeered at her behind her back, as "The Cousin of Lady Nassington." She was daintily dressed, and evidently just come in from visiting, for she still had her hat on when she entered.

"Ah!" she cried, with her usual buoyant air. "You truant! We've all been wondering what had become of you. Busy, of course! Always the same excuse! Find something fresh. You used it a fortnight ago to refuse my invitation to take pot-luck with us."

I laughed at her unconventional greeting, replying, "If I say something fresh it must be a lie. You know, Mrs. Henniker, how hard I'm kept at it, with hospital work and private practice."

"That's all very well," she said, with a slight pout of her well-shaped mouth—for she was really a pretty woman, even though full of airs and caprices. "But it doesn't excuse you for keeping away from us altogether."

"I don't keep away altogether," I protested. "I've called now."

She pulled a wry face, in order to emphasise her dissatisfaction at my explanation, and said:

"And I suppose you are prepared to receive castigation? Ethelwynn has begun to complain because people are saying that your engagement is broken off."

"Who says so?" I inquired rather angrily, for I hated all the tittle-tattle of that little circle of gossips who dawdle over the tea-cups of Redcliffe Square and its neighbourhood. I had attended a good many of them professionally at various times, and was well acquainted with all their ways and all their exaggerations. The gossiping circle in flat-land about Earl's Court was bad enough, but the Redcliffe Square set, being slightly higher in the social scale, was infinitely worse.

"Oh! all the ill-natured people are commenting upon your apparent coolness. Once, not long ago, you used to be seen everywhere with Ethelwynn, and now no one ever sees you. People form a natural conclusion, of course," said the fair-haired, fussy little woman, whose married state gave her the right to censure me on my neglect.

"Ethelwynn is, of course, still with you?" I asked, in anger that outsiders should seek to interfere in my private affairs.

"She still makes our house her home, not caring to go back to the dulness of Neneford," was her reply. "But at present she's away visiting one of her old schoolfellows—a girl who married a country banker and lives near Hereford."

"Then she's in the country?"

"Yes, she went three days ago. I thought she had written to you. She told me she intended doing so."

I had received no letter from her. Indeed, our recent correspondence had been of a very infrequent and formal character. With a woman's quick perception she had noted my coldness and had sought to show equal callousness. With the knowledge of Courtenay's continued existence now in my mind, I was beside myself with grief and anger at having doubted her. But how could I act at that moment, save in obedience to my friend Jevons' instructions? He had urged me to go and find out some details regarding her recent life with the Hennikers; and with that object I remarked:

"She hasn't been very well of late, I fear. The change of air should do her good."

"That's true, poor girl. She's seemed very unwell, and I've often told her that only one doctor in the world could cure her malady—yourself."

I smiled. The malady was, I knew too well, the grief of a disappointed love, and a perfect cure for that could only be accomplished by reconciliation. I was filled with regret that she was absent, for I longed there and then to take her to my breast and whisper into her ear my heart's outpourings. Yes; we men are very foolish in our impetuosity.

"How long will she be away?"

"Why?" inquired the smartly-dressed little woman, mischievously. "What can it matter to you?"

"I have her welfare at heart, Mrs. Henniker," I answered seriously.

"Then you have a curious way of showing your solicitude on her behalf," she said bluntly, smiling again. "Poor Ethelwynn has been pining day after day for a word from you; but you seldom, if ever, write, and when you do the coldness of your letters adds to her burden of grief. I knew always when she had received one by the traces of secret tears upon her cheeks. Forgive me for saying so, Doctor, but you men, either in order to test the strength of a woman's affection, or perhaps out of mere caprice, often try her patience until the strained thread snaps, and she who was a good and pure woman becomes reckless of everything—her name, her family pride, and even her own honour."

Her words aroused my curiosity.

"And you believe that Ethelwynn's patience is exhausted?" I asked, anxiously.

Her eyes met mine, and I saw a mysterious expression in them. There is always something strange in the eyes of a pretty woman who is hiding a secret.

"Well, Doctor," she answered, in a voice quite calm and deliberate, "you've already shown yourself so openly as being disinclined to further associate yourself publicly with poor Ethelwynn, because of the tragedy that befell the household, that you surely cannot complain if you find your place usurped by a new and more devoted lover."

"What!" I cried, starting up, fiercely. "What is this you tell me? Ethelwynn has a lover?"

"I have nothing whatever to do with her affairs, Doctor," said the tantalising woman, who affected all the foibles of the smarter set. "Now that you have forsaken her she is, of course, entirely mistress of her own actions."

"But I haven't forsaken her!" I blurted forth.

She only smiled superciliously, with the same mysterious look—an expression that I cannot define, but by which I knew that she had told me the crushing truth. Ethelwynn, believing that I had cast her aside, had allowed herself to be loved by another!

Who was the man who had usurped my place? I deserved it all, without a doubt. You, reader, have already in your heart condemned me as being hard and indifferent towards the woman I once loved so truly and so well. But, in extenuation, I would ask you to recollect how grave were the suspicions against her—how every fact seemed to prove conclusively that her sister's husband had died by her hand.

I saw plainly in Mrs. Henniker's veiled words a statement of the truth; and, after obtaining from her Ethelwynn's address near Hereford, bade her farewell and blindly left the house.



CHAPTER XX.

MY NEW PATIENT.

In the feverish restlessness of the London night, with its rumbling market-wagons and the constant tinkling of cab-bells, so different to the calm, moonlit stillness of the previous night in rural England, I wrote a long explanatory letter to my love.

I admitted that I had wronged her by my apparent coldness and indifference, but sought to excuse myself on the ground of the pressure of work upon me. She knew well that I was not a rich man, and in that slavery to which I was now tied I had an object—the object I had placed before her in the dawning days of our affection—namely, the snug country practice with an old-fashioned comfortable house in one of the quiet villages or smaller towns in the Midlands. In those days she had been just as enthusiastic about it as I had been. She hated town life, I knew; and even if the wife of a country doctor is allowed few diversions, she can always form a select little tea-and-tennis circle of friends.

The fashion nowadays is for girls of middle-class to regard the prospect of becoming a country doctor's wife with considerable hesitation—"too slow," they term it; and declare that to live in the country and drive in a governess-cart is synonymous with being buried. Many girls marry just as servants change their places—in order "to better themselves;" and alas! that parents encourage this latter-day craze for artificiality and glitter of town life that so often fascinates and spoils a bride ere the honeymoon is over. The majority of girls to-day are not content to marry the hard-working professional man whose lot is cast in the country, but prefer to marry a man in town, so that they may take part in the pleasures of theatres, variety and otherwise, suppers at restaurants, and the thousand and one attractions provided for the reveller in London. They have obtained their knowledge of "life" from the society papers, and they see no reason why they should not taste of those pleasures enjoyed by their wealthier sisters, whose goings and comings are so carefully chronicled. The majority of girls have a desire to shine beyond their own sphere; and the attempt, alas! is accountable for very many of the unhappy marriages. This may sound prosy, I know, but the reader will forgive when he reflects upon the cases in point which arise to his memory—cases of personal friends, perhaps even of relations, to whom marriage was a failure owing to this uncontrollable desire on the part of the woman to assume a position to which neither birth nor wealth entitled her.

To the general rule, however, my love was an exception. Times without number had she declared her anxiety to settle in the country; for, being country born and bred, she was an excellent horsewoman, and in every essential a thorough English girl of the Grass Country, fond of a run with either fox or otter hounds; therefore, in suburban life at Kew, she had been entirely out of her element.

In that letter I wrote, composing it slowly and carefully—for like most medical men I am a bad hand at literary composition—I sought her forgiveness, and asked for an immediate interview. The wisdom of being so precipitous never occurred to me. I only know that in those night hours over my pipe I resolved to forget once and for all that letter I had discovered among the "dead" man's effects, and determined that, while I sought reconciliation with Ethelwynn, I would keep an open and watchful eye upon Mary and her fellow conspirator.

The suggestion that Ethelwynn, believing herself forsaken, had accepted the declarations of a man she considered more worthy than myself, lashed me to a frenzy of madness. He should never have her, whoever he might be. She had been mine, and should remain so, come what might. I added a postscript, asking her to wire me permission to travel down to Hereford to see her; then, sealing up the letter, I went out along the Marylebone Road and posted it in the pillar-box, which I knew was cleared at five o'clock in the morning.

It was then about three o'clock, calm, but rather overcast. The Marylebone Road had at last become hushed in silence. Wagons and cabs had both ceased, and save for a solitary policeman here and there the long thoroughfare, so full of traffic by day, was utterly deserted. I retraced my steps slowly towards the corner of Harley Street, and was about to open the door of the house wherein I had "diggings" when I heard a light, hurried footstep behind me, and turning, confronted the figure of a slim woman of middle height wearing a golf cape, the hood of which had been thrown over her head in lieu of a hat.

"Excuse me, sir," she cried, in a breathless voice, "but are you Doctor Boyd?"

I replied that such was my name.

"Oh, I'm in such distress," she said, in the tone of one whose heart is full of anguish. "My poor father!"

"Is your father ill?" I inquired, turning from the door and looking full at her. I was standing on the step, and she was on the pavement, having evidently approached from the opposite direction. She stood with her back to the street lamp, so I could discern nothing of her features. Only her voice told me that she was young.

"Oh, he's very ill," she replied anxiously. "He was taken queer at eleven o'clock, but he wouldn't hear of me coming to you. He's one of those men who don't like doctors."

"Ah!" I remarked; "there are many of his sort about. But they are compelled to seek our aid now and then. Well, what can I do for you? I suppose you want me to see him—eh?"

"Yes, sir, if you'd be so kind. I know its awfully late; but, as you've been out, perhaps you wouldn't mind running round to our house. It's quite close, and I'll take you there." She spoke with the peculiar drawl and dropped her "h's" in the manner of the true London-bred girl.

"I'll come if you'll wait a minute," I said, and then, leaving her outside, I entered the house and obtained my thermometer and stethoscope.

When I rejoined her and closed the door I made some inquiries about the sufferer's symptoms, but the description she gave me was so utterly vague and contradictory that I could make nothing out of it. Her muddled idea of his illness I put down to her fear and anxiety for his welfare.

She had no mother, she told me; and her father had, of late, given way just a little to drink. He "used" the Haycock, in Edgware Road; and she feared that he had fallen among a hard-drinking set. He was a pianoforte-maker, and had been employed at Brinsmead's for eighteen years. Since her mother died, six years ago, however, he had never been the same.

"It was then that he took to drink?" I hazarded.

"Yes," she responded. "He was devoted to her. They never had a wry word."

"What has he been complaining of? Pains in the head—or what?"

"Oh, he's seemed thoroughly out of sorts," she answered after some slight hesitation, which struck me as peculiar. She was greatly agitated regarding his illness, yet she could not describe one single symptom clearly. The only direct statement she made was that her father had certainly not been drinking on the previous night, for he had remained indoors ever since he came home from the works, as usual, at seven o'clock.

As she led me along the Marylebone Road, in the same direction as that I had just traversed—which somewhat astonished me—I glanced surreptitiously at her, just at the moment when we were approaching a street lamp, and saw to my surprise that she was a sad-faced girl whose features were familiar. I recognised her in a moment as the girl who had been my fellow passenger from Brighton on that Sunday night. Her hair, however, was dishevelled, as though she had turned out from her bed in too great alarm to think of tidying it. I was rather surprised, but did not claim acquaintance with her. She led me past Madame Tussaud's, around Baker Street Station, and then into the maze of those small cross-streets that lie between Upper Baker Street and Lisson Grove until she stopped before a small, rather respectable-looking house, half-way along a short side-street, entering with a latch-key.

In the narrow hall it was quite dark, but she struck a match and lit a cheap paraffin lamp which stood there in readiness, then led me upstairs to a small sitting-room on the first floor, a dingy, stuffy little place of a character which showed me that she and her father lived in lodgings. Having set the lamp on the table, and saying that she would go and acquaint the invalid with my arrival, she went out, closing the door quietly after her. The room was evidently the home of a studious, if poor, man, for in a small deal bookcase I noticed, well-kept and well-arranged, a number of standard works on science and theology, as well as various volumes which told me mutely that their owner was a student, while upon the table lay a couple of critical reviews, the "Saturday" and "Spectator."

I took up the latter and glanced it over in order to pass the time, for my conductress seemed to be in consultation with her father. My eye caught an article that interested me, and I read it through, forgetting for a moment all about my call there. Fully ten minutes elapsed, when of a sudden I heard the voice of a man speaking somewhat indistinctly in a room above that in which I was sitting. He seemed to be talking low and gruffly, so that I was unable to distinguish what was said. At last, however, the girl returned, and, asking me to follow her, conducted me to a bedroom on the next floor.

The only illumination was a single night-light burning in a saucer, casting a faint, uncertain glimmer over everything, and shaded with an open book so that the occupant of the bed lay in deepest shadow. Unlike what one would have expected to find in such a house, an iron bedstead with brass rail, the bed was a great old-fashioned one with heavy wool damask hangings; and advancing towards it, while the girl retired and closed the door after her, I bent down to see the invalid.

In the shadow I could just distinguish on the pillow a dark-bearded face whose appearance was certainly not prepossessing.

"You are not well?" I said, inquiringly, as our eyes met in the dim half-light. "Your daughter is distressed about you."

"Yes, I'm a bit queer," he growled. "But she needn't have bothered you."

"Let me remove the shade from the light, so that I can see your face," I suggested. "It's too dark to see anything."

"No," he snapped; "I can't bear the light. You can see quite enough of me here."

"Very well," I said, reluctantly, and taking his wrist in one hand I held my watch in the other.

"I fancy you'll find me a bit feverish," he said in a curious tone, almost as though he were joking, and by his manner I at once put him down as one of those eccentric persons who are sceptical of any achievements of medical science.

I was holding his wrist and bending towards the light, in order to distinguish the hands of my watch, when a strange thing happened.

There was a deafening explosion close behind me, which caused me to jump back startled. I dropped the man's hand and turned quickly in the direction of the sound; but, as I did so, a second shot from a revolver held by an unknown person was discharged full in my face.

The truth was instantly plain. I had been entrapped for my watch and jewellery—like many another medical man in London has been before me; doctors being always an easy prey for thieves. The ruffian shamming illness sprang from his bed fully dressed, and at the same moment two other blackguards, who had been hidden in the room, flung themselves upon me ere I could realize my deadly peril.

The whole thing had been carefully planned, and it was apparent that the gang were quite fearless of neighbours overhearing the shots. The place bore a bad reputation, I knew; but I had never suspected that a man might be fired at from behind in that cowardly way.

So sudden and startling were the circumstances that I stood for a moment motionless, unable to fully comprehend their intention. There was but one explanation. These men intended to kill me!

Without a second's hesitation they rushed upon me, and I realized with heart-sinking that to attempt to resist would be utterly futile. I was entirely helpless in their hands!



CHAPTER XXI.

WOMAN'S WILES.

"Look sharp!" cried the black-bearded ruffian who had feigned illness. "Give him a settler, 'Arry. He wants his nerves calmin' a bit!"

The fellow had seized my wrists, and I saw that one of the men who had sprung from his place of concealment was pouring some liquid from a bottle upon a sponge. I caught a whiff of its odour—an odour too familiar to me—the sickly smell of chloroform.

Fortunately I am pretty athletic, and with a sudden wrench I freed my wrists from the fellow's grip, and, hitting him one from the shoulder right between the eyes, sent him spinning back against the chest of drawers. To act swiftly was my only chance. If once they succeeded in pressing that sponge to my nostrils and holding it there, then all would be over; for by their appearance I saw they were dangerous criminals, and not men to stick at trifles. They would murder me.

As I sent down the man who had shammed illness, his two companions dashed towards me with imprecations upon their lips; but with lightning speed I sprang towards the door and placed my back against it. So long as I could face them I intended to fight for life. Their desire was, I knew, to attack me from behind, as they had already done. I had surely had a narrow escape from their bullets, for they had fired at close range.

At Guy's many stories have been told of similar cases where doctors, known to wear valuable watches, diamond rings or scarf pins, have been called at night by daring thieves and robbed; therefore I always, as precaution, placed my revolver in my pocket when I received a night call to a case with which I was not acquainted.

I had not disregarded my usual habit when I had placed my thermometer and stethoscope in my pocket previous to accompanying the girl; therefore it reposed there fully loaded, a fact of which my assailants were unaware.

In much quicker time than it takes to narrate the incident I was again pounced upon by all three, the man with the sponge in readiness to dash it to my mouth and nostrils.

But as they sprang forward to seize me, I raised my hand swiftly, took aim, and fired straight at the holder of the sponge, the bullet passing through his shoulder and causing him to drop the anaesthetic as though it were a live coal, and to spring several feet from the ground.

"God! I'm shot!" he cried.

But ere the words had left his mouth I fired a second chamber, inflicting a nasty wound in the neck of the fellow with the black beard.

"Shoot! shoot!" he cried to the third man, but it was evident that in the first struggle, when I had been seized, the man's revolver had dropped on the carpet, and in the semi-darkness he could not recover it.

Recognising this, I fired a pot shot in the man's direction; then, opening the door, sprang down the stairs into the hall. One of them followed, but the other two, wounded as they were, did not care to face my weapon again. They saw that I knew how to shoot, and probably feared that I might inflict a fatal hurt.

As I approached the front door, and was fumbling with the lock, the third man flung himself upon me, determined that I should not escape. With great good fortune, however, I managed to unbolt the door, and after a desperate struggle, in which he endeavoured to wrest the weapon from my hand, I succeeded at last in gripping him by the throat, and after nearly strangling him flung him to the ground and escaped into the street, just as his associates, hearing his cries of distress, dashed downstairs to his assistance.

Without doubt it was the narrowest escape of my life that I have ever had, and so excited was I that I dashed down the street hatless until I emerged into Lisson Grove. Then, and only then, it occurred to me that, having taken no note of the house, I should be unable to recognise it and denounce it to the police. But when one is in peril of one's life all other thoughts or instincts are submerged in the one frantic effort of self-preservation. Still, it was annoying to think that such scoundrels should be allowed to go scot free.

Breathless, excited, and with nerves unstrung, I opened my door with my latch-key and returned to my room, where the reading-lamp had burned low, for it had been alight all through the night. I mixed myself a stiff brandy and soda, tossed it off, and then turned to look at myself in the glass.

The picture I presented was disreputable and unkempt. My hair was ruffled, my collar torn open from its stud, and one sleeve of my coat had been torn out, so that the lining showed through. I had a nasty scratch across the neck, too, inflicted by the fingernails of one of the blackguards, and from the abrasion blood had flowed and made a mess of my collar.

Altogether I presented a very brilliant and entertaining spectacle. But my watch, ring and scarf-pin were in their places. If robbery had been their motive, as no doubt it had been, then they had profited nothing, and two of them had been winged into the bargain. The only mode by which their identity could by chance be discovered was in the event of those wounds being troublesome. In that case they would consult a medical man; but as they would, in all probability, go to some doctor in a distant quarter of London, the hope of tracing them by such means was but a slender one.

Feeling a trifle faint I sat in my chair, resting for a quarter of an hour or so; then, becoming more composed, I put out the study lights, and after a refreshing wash went to bed.

The morning's reflections were somewhat disconcerting. A deliberate and dastardly attempt had been made upon my life; but with what motive? The young woman, whose face was familiar, had, I recollected, asked most distinctly whether I was Doctor Boyd—a fact which showed that the trap had been prepared. I now saw the reason why she was unable to describe the man's sham illness, and during the morning, while at work in the hospital wards, my suspicions became aroused that there had been some deeper motive in it all than the robbery of my watch or scarf-pin. Human life had been taken for far less value than that of my jewellery, I knew; nevertheless, the deliberate shooting at me while I felt the patient's pulse showed a determination to assassinate. By good fortune, however, I had escaped, and resolved to exercise more care in future when answering night calls to unknown houses.

Sir Bernard did not come to town that day; therefore I was compelled to spend the afternoon in the severe consulting-room at Harley Street, busy the whole time. Shortly before six o'clock, utterly worn out, I strolled round to my rooms to change my coat before going down to the Savage Club to dine with my friends—for it was Saturday night, and I seldom missed the genial house-dinner of that most Bohemian of institutions.

Without ceremony I threw open the door of my sitting-room and entered, but next instant stood still, for, seated in my chair patiently awaiting me was the slim, well-dressed figure of Mary Courtenay. Her widow's weeds became her well; and as she rose with a rustle of silk, a bright laugh rippled from her lips, and she said:

"I know I'm an unexpected visitor, Doctor, but you'll forgive my calling in this manner, won't you?"

"Forgive you? Of course," I answered; and with politeness which I confess was feigned, I invited her to be seated. True to the promise made to her husband, she had lost no time in coming to see me, but I was fortunately well aware of the purport of her errand.

"I had no idea you were in London," I said, by way of allowing her to explain the object of her visit, for, in the light of the knowledge I had gained on the Nene bank two nights previously, her call was of considerable interest.

"I'm only up for a couple of days," she answered. "London has not the charm for me that it used to have," and she sighed heavily, as though her mind were crowded by bitter memories. Then raising her veil, and revealing her pale, handsome face, she said bluntly, "The reason of my call is to talk to you about Ethelwynn."

"Well, what of her?" I asked, looking straight into her face and noticing for the first time a curious shifty look in her eyes, such as I had never before noticed in her. She tried to remain calm, but, by the nervous twitching of her fingers and lower lip, I knew that within her was concealed a tempest of conflicting emotions.

"To speak quite frankly, Ralph," she said in a calm, serious voice, "I don't think you are treating her honourably, poor girl. You seem to have forsaken her altogether, and the neglect has broken her heart."

"No, Mrs. Courtenay; you misunderstand the situation," I protested. "That I have neglected her slightly I admit; nevertheless the neglect was not wilful, but owing to my constant occupation in my practice."

"She's desperate. Besides, it's common talk that you've broken off the engagement."

"Gossip does not affect me; therefore why should she take any heed of it?"

"Well, she loves you. That you know quite well. You surely could not have been deceived in those days at Kew, for her devotion to you was absolute and complete." She was pleading her sister's cause just as Courtenay had directed her. I felt annoyed that she should thus endeavour to impose upon me, yet saw the folly of betraying the fact that I knew her secret. My intention was to wait and watch.

"I called at the Hennikers' a couple of days ago, but Ethelwynn is no longer there. She's gone into the country, it seems," I remarked.

"Where to?" she asked quickly.

"She's visiting someone near Hereford."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as though a sudden light dawned upon her. "I know, then. Why, I wonder, did she not tell me. I intended to call on her this evening, but it is useless. I'm glad to know, for I don't care much for Mrs. Henniker. She's such a very shallow woman."

"Ethelwynn seems to have wandered about a good deal since the sad affair at Kew," I observed.

"Yes, and so have I," she responded. "As you are well aware, the blow was such a terrible one to me that—that somehow I feel I shall never get over it—never!" I saw tears, genuine tears, welling in her eyes. If she could betray emotion in that manner she was surely a wonderful actress.

"Time will efface your sorrow," I said, in a voice meant to be sympathetic. "In a year or two your grief will not be so poignant, and the past will gradually fade from your memory. It is always so."

She shook her head mournfully.

"No," she said, "for in addition to my grief there is the mystery of it all—a mystery that grows each day more and more inscrutable."

I glanced sharply at her in surprise. Was she trying to mislead me, or were her words spoken in real earnest? I could not determine.

"Yes," I acquiesced. "The mystery is as complete as ever."

"Has no single clue been found, either by the police or by your friend—Jevons is, I think, his name?" she asked, with keen anxiety.

"One or two points have, I believe, been elucidated," I answered; "but the mystery still remains unsolved."

"As it ever will be," she added, with a sigh which appeared to me to be one of satisfaction, rather than of regret. "The details were so cleverly arranged that the police have been baffled in every endeavour. Is not that so?"

I nodded in the affirmative.

"And your friend Jevons? Has he given up all hope of any satisfactory discovery?"

"I really don't know," I answered. "I've not seen him for quite a long time. And in any case he has told me nothing regarding the result of his investigations. It is his habit to be mute until he has gained some tangible result."

A puzzled, apprehensive expression crossed her white brow for a moment; then it vanished into a pleasant smile, as she asked in confidence:

"Now, tell me, Ralph, what is your own private opinion of the situation?"

"Well, it is both complicated and puzzling. If we could discover any reason for the brutal deed we might get a clue to the assassin; but as far as the police have been able to gather, it seems that there is an entire absence of motive; hence the impossibility of carrying the inquiries further."

"Then the investigation is actually dropped?" she exclaimed, unable to further conceal her anxiety.

"I presume it is," I replied.

Her chest heaved slightly, and slowly fell again. By its movement I knew that my answer allowed her to breathe more freely.

"You also believe that your friend Jevons has been compelled, owing to negative results, to relinquish his efforts?" she asked.

"Such is my opinion. But I have not seen him lately in order to consult him."

In silence she listened to my answer, and was evidently reassured by it; yet I could not, for the life of me, understand her manner—at one moment nervous and apprehensive, and at the next full of an almost imperious self-confidence. At times the expression in her eyes was such as justified her mother in the fears she had expressed to me. I tried to diagnose her symptoms, but they were too complicated and contradictory.

She spoke again of her sister, returning to the main point upon which she had sought the interview. She was a decidedly attractive woman, with a face rendered more interesting by her widow's garb.

But why was she masquerading so cleverly? For what reason had old Courtenay contrived to efface his identity so thoroughly? As I looked at her, mourning for a man who was alive and well, I utterly failed to comprehend one single fact of the astounding affair. It staggered belief!

"Let me speak candidly to you, Ralph," she said, after we had been discussing Ethelwynn for some little time. "As you may readily imagine, I have my sister's welfare very much at heart, and my only desire is to see her happy and comfortable, instead of pining in melancholy as she now is. I ask you frankly, have you quarrelled?"