"No, we have not," I answered promptly.

"Then if you have not, your neglect is all the more remarkable," she said. "Forgive me for speaking like this, but our intimate acquaintanceship in the past gives me a kind of prerogative to speak my mind. You won't be offended, will you?" she asked, with one of those sweet smiles of hers that I knew so well.

"Offended? Certainly not, Mrs. Courtenay. We are too old friends for that."

"Then take my advice and see Ethelwynn again," she urged. "I know how she adores you; I know how your coldness has crushed all the life out of her. She hides her secret from mother, and for that reason will not come down to Neneford. See her, and return to her; for it is a thousand pities that two lives should be wrecked so completely by some little misunderstanding which will probably be explained away in a dozen words. You may consider this appeal an extraordinary one, made by one sister on behalf of another, but when I tell you that I have not consulted Ethelwynn, nor does she know that I am here on her behalf, you will readily understand that I have both your interests equally at heart. To me it seems a grievous thing that you should be placed apart in this manner; that the strong love you bear each other should be crushed, and your future happiness be sacrificed. Tell me plainly," she asked in earnestness. "You love her still—don't you?"

"I do," was my frank, outspoken answer, and it was the honest truth.



CHAPTER XXII.

A MESSAGE.

The pretty woman in her widow's weeds stirred slightly and settled her skirts, as though my answer had given her the greatest satisfaction.

"Then take my advice, Ralph," she went on. "See her again before it is too late."

"You refer to her fresh lover—eh?" I inquired bitterly.

"Her fresh lover?" she cried in surprise. "I don't understand you. Who is he, pray?"

"I'm in ignorance of his name."

"But how do you know of his existence? I have heard nothing of him, and surely she would have told me. All her correspondence, all her poignant grief, and all her regrets have been of you."

"Mrs. Henniker gave me to understand that my place in your sister's heart has been filled by another man," I said, in a hard voice.

"Mrs. Henniker!" she cried in disgust. "Just like that evil-tongued mischief-maker! I've told you already that I detest her. She was my friend once—it was she who allured me from my husband's side. Why she exercises such an influence over poor Ethelwynn, I can't tell. I do hope she'll leave their house and come back home. You must try and persuade her to do so."

"Do you think, then, that the woman has lied?" I asked.

"I'm certain of it. Ethelwynn has never a thought for any man save yourself. I'll vouch for that."

"But what object can she have in telling me an untruth?"

The widow smiled.

"A very deep one, probably. You don't know her as well as I do, or you would suspect all her actions of ulterior motive."

"Well," I said, after a pause, "to tell the truth, I wrote to Ethelwynn last night with a view to reconciliation."

"You did!" she cried joyously. "Then you have anticipated me, and my appeal to you has been forestalled by your own conscience—eh?"

"Exactly," I laughed. "She has my letter by this time, and I am expecting a wire in reply. I have asked her to meet me at the earliest possible moment."

"Then you have all my felicitations, Ralph," she said, in a voice that seemed to quiver with emotion. "She loves you—loves you with a fiercer and even more passionate affection than that I entertained towards my poor dead husband. Of your happiness I have no doubt, for I have seen how you idolised her, and how supreme was your mutual content when in each other's society. Destiny, that unknown influence that shapes our ends, has placed you together and forged a bond between you that is unbreakable—the bond of perfect love."

There seemed such a genuine ring in her voice, and she spoke with such solicitude for our welfare, that in the conversation I entirely forgot that after all she was only trying to bring us together again in order to prevent her own secret from being exposed.

At some moments she seemed the perfection of honesty and integrity, without the slightest affectation of interest or artificiality of manner, and it was this fresh complexity of her character that utterly baffled me. I could not determine whether, or not, she was in earnest.

"If it is really destiny I suppose that to try and resist it is quite futile," I remarked mechanically.

"Absolutely. Ethelwynn will become your wife, and you have all my good wishes for prosperity and happiness."

I thanked her, but pointed out that the matrimonial project was, as yet, immature.

"How foolish you are, Ralph!" she said. "You know very well that you'd marry her to-morrow if you could."

"Ah! if I could," I repeated wistfully. "Unfortunately my position is not yet sufficiently well assured to justify my marrying. Wedded poverty is never a pleasing prospect."

"But you have the world before you. I've heard Sir Bernard say so, times without number. He believes implicitly in you as a man who will rise to the head of your profession."

I laughed dubiously, shaking my head.

"I only hope that his anticipations may be realized," I said. "But I fear I'm no more brilliant than a hundred other men in the hospitals. It takes a smart man nowadays to boom himself into notoriety. As in literature and law, so in the medical profession, it isn't the clever man who rises to the top of the tree. More often it is a second-rate man, who has private influence, and has gauged the exact worth of self-advertisement. This is an age of reputations quickly made, and just as rapidly lost. In the professional world a new man rises with every moon."

"But that need not be so in your case," she pointed out. "With Sir Bernard as your chief, you are surely in an assured position."

Taking her into my confidence, I told her of my ideal of a snug country practice—one of those in which the assistant does the night-work and attends to the club people, while there is a circle of county people as patients. There are hundreds of such practices in England, where a doctor, although scarcely known outside his own district, is in a position which Harley Street, with all its turmoil of fashionable fads and fancies, envies as the elysium of what life should be. The village doctor of Little Perkington may be an ignorant old buffer; but his life, with its three days' hunting a week, its constant invitations to shoot over the best preserves, and its free fishing whenever in the humour, is a thousand times preferable to the silk-hatted, frock-coated existence of the fashionable physician.

I had long ago talked it all over with Ethelwynn, and she entirely agreed with me. I had not the slightest desire to have a consulting-room of my own in Harley Street. All I longed for was a life in open air and rural tranquillity; a life far from the tinkle of the cab-bell and the milkman's strident cry; a life of ease and bliss, with my well-beloved ever at my side. The unfortunate man compelled to live in London is deprived of half of God's generous gifts.

"Though this unaccountable coldness has fallen between you," Mary said, looking straight at me, "you surely cannot have doubted the strength of her affection?"

"But Mrs. Henniker's insinuation puzzles me. Besides, her recent movements have been rather erratic, and almost seem to bear out the suggestion."

"That woman is utterly unscrupulous!" she cried angrily. "Depend upon it that she has some deep motive in making that slanderous statement. On one occasion she almost caused a breach between myself and my poor husband. Had he not possessed the most perfect confidence in me, the consequences might have been most serious for both of us. The outcome of a mere word, uttered half in jest, it came near ruining my happiness for ever. I did not know her true character in those days."

"I had no idea that she was a dangerous woman," I remarked, rather surprised at this statement. Hitherto I had regarded her as quite a harmless person, who, by making a strenuous effort to obtain a footing in good society, often rendered herself ridiculous in the eyes of her friends.

"Her character!" she echoed fiercely. "She's one of the most evil-tongued women in London. Here is an illustration. While posing as Ethelwynn's friend, and entertaining her beneath her roof, she actually insinuates to you the probability of a secret lover! Is it fair? Is it the action of an honest, trustworthy woman?"

I was compelled to admit that it was not. Yet, was this action of her own, in coming to me in those circumstances, in any way more straightforward? Had she known that I was well aware of the secret existence of her husband, she would assuredly never have dared to speak in the manner she had. Indeed, as I sat there facing her, I could scarcely believe it possible that she could act the imposture so perfectly. Her manner was flawless; her self-possession marvellous.

But the motive of it all—what could it be? The problem had been a maddening one from first to last.

I longed to speak out my mind then and there; to tell her of what I knew, and of what I had witnessed with my own eyes. Yet such a course was useless. I was proceeding carefully, watching and noting everything, determined not to blunder.

Had you been in my place, my reader, what would you have done? Recollect, I had witnessed a scene on the river-bank that was absolutely without explanation, and which surpassed all human credence. I am a matter-of-fact man, not given to exaggerate or to recount incidents that have not occurred, but I confess openly and freely that since I had walked along that path I hourly debated within myself whether I was actually awake and in the full possession of my faculties, or whether I had dreamt the whole thing.

Yet it was no dream. Certain solid facts convinced me of its stern, astounding reality. The man upon whose body I had helped to make an autopsy was actually alive.

In reply to my questions my visitor told me that she was staying at Martin's, in Cork Street—a small private hotel which the Mivarts had patronised for many years—and that on the following morning she intended returning again to Neneford.

Then, after she had again urged me to lose no time in seeing Ethelwynn, and had imposed upon me silence as to what had passed between us, I assisted her into a hansom, and she drove away, waving her hand in farewell.

The interview had been a curious one, and I could not in the least understand its import. Regarded in the light of the knowledge I had gained when down at Neneford, it was, of course, plain that both she and her "dead" husband were anxious to secure Ethelwynn's silence, and believed they could effect this by inducing us to marry. The conspiracy was deeply-laid and ingenious, as indeed was the whole of the amazing plot. Yet, some how, when I reflected upon it on my return from the club, I could not help sitting till far into the night trying to solve the remarkable enigma.

A telegram from Ethelwynn had reached me at the Savage at nine o'clock, stating that she had received my letter, and was returning to town the day after to-morrow. She had, she said, replied to me by that night's post.

I felt anxious to see her, to question her, and to try, if possible, to gather from her some fact which would lead me to discern a motive in the feigned death of Henry Courtenay. But I could only wait in patience for the explanation. Mary's declaration that her sister possessed no other lover besides myself reassured me. I had not believed it of her from the first; yet it was passing strange that such an insinuation should have fallen from the lips of a woman who now posed as her dearest friend.

Next day, Sir Bernard came to town to see two unusual cases at the hospital, and afterwards drove me back with him to Harley Street, where he had an appointment with a German Princess, who had come to London to consult him as a specialist. As usual, he made his lunch off two ham sandwiches, which he had brought with him from Victoria Station refreshment-room and carried in a paper bag. I suggested that we should eat together at a restaurant; but the old man declined, declaring that if he ate more than his usual sandwiches for luncheon when in town he never had any appetite for dinner.

So I left him alone in his consulting-room, munching bread and ham, and sipping his wineglassful of dry sherry.

About half-past three, just before he returned to Brighton, I saw him again as usual to hear any instructions he wished to give, for sometimes he saw patients once, and then left them in my hands. He seemed wearied, and was sitting resting his brow upon his thin bony hands. During the day he certainly had been fully occupied, and I had noticed that of late he was unable to resist the strain as he once could.

"Aren't you well?" I asked, when seated before him.

"Oh, yes," he answered, with a sigh. "There's not much the matter with me. I'm tired, I suppose, that's all. The eternal chatter of those confounded women bores me to death. They can't tell their symptoms without going into all the details of family history and domestic infelicity," he snapped. "They think me doctor, lawyer, and parson rolled into one."

I laughed at his criticism. What he said was, indeed, quite true. Women often grew confidential towards me, at my age; therefore I could quite realize how they laid bare all their troubles to him.

"Oh, by the way!" he said, as though suddenly recollecting. "Have you met your friend Ambler Jevons lately?"

"No," I replied. "He's been away for some weeks, I think. Why?"

"Because I saw him yesterday in King's Road. He was driving in a fly, and had one eye bandaged up. Met with an accident, I should think."

"An accident!" I exclaimed in consternation. "He wrote to me the other day, but did not mention it."

"He's been trying his hand at unravelling the mystery of poor Courtenay's death, hasn't he?" the old man asked.

"I believe so?"

"And failed—eh?"

"I don't think his efforts have been crowned with very much success, although he has told me nothing," I said.

In response the old man grunted in dissatisfaction. I knew how disgusted he had been at the bungling and utter failure of the police inquiries, for he was always declaring Scotland Yard seemed to be useless, save for the recovery of articles left in cabs.

He glanced at his watch, snatched up his silk hat, buttoned his coat, and, wishing me good-bye, went out to catch the Pullman train.

Next day about two o'clock I was in one of the wards at Guy's, seeing the last of my patients, when a telegram was handed to me by one of the nurses.

I tore it open eagerly, expecting that it was from Ethelwynn, announcing the hour of her arrival at Paddington.

But the message upon which my eyes fell was so astounding, so appalling, and so tragic that my heart stood still.

The few words upon the flimsy paper increased the mystery to an even more bewildering degree than before!



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE MYSTERY OF MARY.

The astounding message, despatched from Neneford and signed by Parkinson, the butler, ran as follows:—

"Regret to inform you that Mrs. Courtenay was found drowned in the river this morning. Can you come here? My mistress very anxious to see you."

Without a moment's delay I sent a reply in the affirmative, and, after searching in the "A.B.C.," found that I had a train at three o'clock from King's Cross. This I took, and after an anxious journey arrived duly at the Manor, all the blinds of which were closely drawn.

Parkinson, white-faced and agitated, a thin, nervous figure in a coat too large for him, had been watching my approach up the drive, and held open the door for me.

"Ah, Doctor!" the old fellow gasped. "It's terrible—terrible! To think that poor Miss Mary should die like that!"

"Tell me all about it," I demanded, quickly. "Come!" and I led the way into the morning room.

"We don't know anything about it, sir; it's all a mystery," the grey-faced old man replied. "When one of the housemaids went up to Miss Mary's room at eight o'clock this morning to take her tea, as usual, she received no answer to her knock. Thinking she was asleep she returned half-an-hour later, only to find her absent, and that the bed had not been slept in. We told the mistress, never thinking that such an awful fate had befallen poor Miss Mary. Mistress was inclined to believe that she had gone off on some wild excursion somewhere, for of late she's been in the habit of going away for a day or two without telling us. At first none of us dreamed that anything had happened, until, just before twelve o'clock, Reuben Dixon's lad, who'd been out fishing, came up, shouting that poor Miss Mary was in the water under some bushes close to the stile that leads into Monk's Wood. At first we couldn't believe it; but, with the others, I flew down post-haste, and there she was, poor thing, under the surface, with her dress caught in the bushes that droop into the water. Her hat was gone, and her hair, unbound, floated out, waving with the current. We at once got a boat and took her out, but she was quite dead. Four men from the village carried her up here, and they've placed her in her own room."

"The police know about it, of course?"

"Yes, we told old Jarvis, the constable. He's sent a telegram to Oundle, I think."

"And what doctor has seen her?"

"Doctor Govitt. He's here now."

"Ah! I must see him. He has examined the body, I suppose?"

"I expect so, sir. He's been a long time in the room."

"And how is it believed that the poor young lady got into the water?" I asked, anxious to obtain the local theory.

"It's believed that she either fell in or was pushed in a long way higher up, because half-a-mile away, not far from the lock, there's distinct marks in the long grass, showing that somebody went off the path to the brink of the river. And close by that spot they found her black silk shawl."

"She went out without a hat, then?" I remarked, recollecting that when she had met her husband in secret she had worn a shawl. Could it be possible that she had met him again, and that he had made away with her? The theory seemed a sound one in the present circumstances.

"It seems to me, sir, that the very fact of her taking her shawl showed that she did not intend to be out very long," the butler said.

"It would almost appear that she went out in the night in order to meet somebody," I observed.

The old man shook his head sorrowfully, saying:

"Poor Miss Mary's never been the same since her husband died, Doctor. She was often very strange in her manner. Between ourselves, I strongly suspect it to be a case of deliberate suicide. She was utterly broken down by the awful blow."

"I don't see any motive for suicide," I remarked. Then I asked, "Has she ever been known to meet anyone on the river-bank at night?"

Old Parkinson was usually an impenetrable person. He fidgeted, and I saw that my question was an awkward one for him to answer without telling a lie.

"The truth will have to be discovered about this, you know," I went on. "Therefore, if you have any knowledge likely to assist us at the inquest it is your duty to explain."

"Well, sir," he answered, after a short pause, "to tell the truth, in this last week there have been some funny rumours in the village."

"About what?"

"People say that she was watched by Drake, Lord Nassington's gamekeeper, who saw her at two o'clock in the morning walking arm-in-arm with an old gentleman. I heard the rumour down at the Golden Ball, but I wouldn't believe it. Why, Mr. Courtenay's only been dead a month or two. The man Drake is a bragging fellow, and I think most people discredit his statement."

"Well," I said, "it might possibly have been true. It seems hardly conceivable that she should go wandering alone by the river at night. She surely had some motive in going there. Was she only seen by the gamekeeper on one occasion?"

"Only once. But, of course, he soon spread it about the village, and it formed a nice little tit-bit of gossip. As soon as I heard it I took steps to deny it."

"It never reached the young lady's ears?"

"Oh, no," the old servant answered. "We were careful to keep the scandal to ourselves, knowing how it would pain her. She's had sufficient trouble in her life, poor thing." And with tears in his grey old eyes, he added: "I have known her ever since she was a child in her cradle. It's awful that her end should come like this."

He was a most trustworthy and devoted servant, having spent nearly thirty years of his life in the service of the family, until he had become almost part of it. His voice quivered with emotion when he spoke of the dead daughter of the house, but he knew that towards me it was not a servant's privilege to entirely express the grief he felt.

I put other questions regarding the dead woman's recent actions, and he was compelled to admit that they had, of late, been quite unaccountable. Her absences were frequent, and she appeared to sometimes make long and mysterious journeys in various directions, while her days at home were usually spent in the solitude of her own room. Some friends of the family, he said, attributed it to grief at the great blow she had sustained, while others suspected that her mind had become slightly unhinged. I recollected, myself, how strange had been her manner when she had visited me, and inwardly confessed to being utterly mystified.

Doctor Govitt I found to be a stout middle-aged man, of the usual type of old-fashioned practitioner of a cathedral town, whose methods and ideas were equally old-fashioned. Before I entered the room where the unfortunate woman was lying, he explained to me that life had evidently been extinct about seven hours prior to the discovery of the body.

"There are no marks of foul play?" I inquired anxiously.

"None, as far as I've been able to find—only a scratch on the left cheek, evidently inflicted after death."

"What's your opinion?"

"Suicide. Without a doubt. The hour at which she fell into the water is shown by her watch. It stopped at 2.28."

"You have no suspicion of foul play?"

"None whatever."

I did not reply; but by the compression of my lips I presume he saw that I was dubious.

"Ah! I see you are suspicious," he said. "Of course, in tragic circumstances like these the natural conclusion is to doubt. The poor young lady's husband was mysteriously done to death, and I honestly believe that her mind gave way beneath the strain of grief. I've attended her professionally two or three times of late, and noted certain abnormal features in her case that aroused my suspicions that her brain had become unbalanced. I never, however, suspected her of suicidal tendency."

"Her mother, Mrs. Mivart, did," I responded. "She told me so only a few days ago."

"I know, I know," he answered. "Of course, her mother had more frequent and intimate opportunities for watching her than we had. In any case it is a very dreadful thing for the family."

"Very!" I said.

"And the mystery surrounding the death of Mr. Courtenay—was it never cleared up? Did the police never discover any clue to the assassin?"

"No. Not a single fact regarding it, beyond those related at the inquest, has ever been brought to light."

"Extraordinary—very extraordinary!"

I went with him into the darkened bedroom wherein lay the body, white and composed, her hair dishevelled about her shoulders, and her white waxen hands crossed about her breast. The expression upon her countenance—that face that looked so charming beneath its veil of widowhood as she had sat in my room at Harley Place—was calm and restful, for indeed, in the graceful curl of the lips, there was a kind of half-smile, as though, poor thing, she had at last found perfect peace.

Govitt drew up the blind, allowing the golden sunset to stream into the room, thereby giving me sufficient light to make my examination. The latter occupied some little time, my object being to discover any marks of violence. In persons drowned by force, and especially in women, the doctor expects to find red or livid marks upon the wrists, arms or neck, where the assailant had seized the victim. Of course, these are not always discernible, for it is easier to entice the unfortunate one to the water's edge and give a gentle push than grapple in violence and hurl a person into the stream by main force. The push leaves no trace; therefore, the verdict in hundreds of cases of wilful murder has been "Suicide," or an open one, because the necessary evidence of foul play has been wanting.

Here was a case in point. The scratch on the face that Govitt had described was undoubtedly a post-mortem injury, and, with the exception of another slight scratch on the ball of the left thumb, I could find no trace whatever of violence. And yet, to me, the most likely theory was that she had again met her husband in secret, and had lost her life at his hands. To attribute a motive was utterly impossible. I merely argued logically within myself that it could not possibly be a case of suicide, for without a doubt she had met clandestinely the eccentric old man whom the world believed to be dead.

But if he were alive, who was the man who had died at Kew?

The facts within my knowledge were important and startling; yet if I related them to any second person I felt that my words would be scouted as improbable, and my allegations would certainly not be accepted. Therefore I still kept my own counsel, longing to meet Jevons and hear the result of his further inquiries.

Mrs. Mivart I found seated in her own room, tearful and utterly crushed. Poor Mary's end had come upon her as an overwhelming burden of grief, and I stood beside her full of heartfelt sympathy. A strong bond of affection had always existed between us; but, as I took her inert hand and uttered words of comfort, she only shook her head sorrowfully and burst into a torrent of tears. Truly the Manor was a dismal house of mourning.

To Ethelwynn I sent a telegram addressed to the Hennikers, in order that she should receive it the instant she arrived in town. Briefly I explained the tragedy, and asked her to come down to the Manor at once, feeling assured that Mrs. Mivart, in the hour of her distress, desired her daughter at her side. Then I accompanied the local constable, and the three police officers who had come over from Oundle, down to the riverside.

The brilliant afterglow tinged the broad, brimming river with a crimson light, and the trees beside the water already threw heavy shadows, for the day was dying, and the glamour of the fading sunset and the dead stillness of departing day had fallen upon everything. Escorted by a small crowd of curious villagers, we walked along the footpath over the familiar ground that I had traversed when following the pair. Eagerly we searched everywhere for traces of a struggle, but the only spot where the long grass was trodden down was at a point a little beyond the ferry. Yet as far as I could see there was no actual sign of any struggle. It was merely as though the grass had been flattened by the trailing of a woman's skirt across it. Examination showed, too, imprints of Louis XV. heels in the soft clay bank. One print was perfect, but the other, close to the edge, gave evidence that the foot had slipped, thus establishing the spot as that where the unfortunate young lady had fallen into the water. When examining the body I had noticed that she was wearing Louis XV. shoes, and also that there was still mud upon the heels. She had always been rather proud of her feet, and surely there is nothing which sets off the shape of a woman's foot better than the neat little shoe, with its high instep and heel.

We searched on until twilight darkened into night, traversing that path every detail of which had impressed itself so indelibly upon my brain. We passed the stile near which I had stood hidden in the bushes and overheard that remarkable conversation between the "dead" man and his wife. All the memories of that never-to-be-forgotten night returned to me. Alas! that I had not questioned Mary when she had called upon me on the previous day.

She had died, and her secret was lost.



CHAPTER XXIV.

ETHELWYNN IS SILENT.

At midnight I was seated in the drawing-room of the Manor. Before me, dressed in plain black which made her beautiful face look even paler than it was, sat my love, bowed, despondent, silent. The household, although still astir, was hushed by the presence of the dead; the long old room itself, usually so bright and pleasant, seemed full of dark shadows, for the lamp, beneath its yellow shade, burned but dimly, and everywhere there reigned an air of mourning.

Half-demented by grief, my love had arrived in hot haste about ten o'clock, and, rushing to poor Mary's room, had thrown herself upon her knees beside the poor inanimate clay; for, even though of late differences might have existed between them, the sisters were certainly devoted to each other. The scene in that room was an unhappy one, for although Ethelwynn betrayed nothing by her lips, I saw by her manner that she was full of remorse over the might-have-beens, and that she was bitterly reproaching herself for some fact of which I had no knowledge.

Of the past we had not spoken. She had been too full of grief, too utterly overcome by the tragedy of the situation. Her mournful figure struck a sympathetic chord in my heart. Perhaps I had misjudged her; perhaps I had attributed to her sinister motives that were non-existent. Alas! wherever mystery exists, little charity enters man's heart. Jealousy dries up the milk of human kindness.

"Dearest," I said, rising and taking her slim white hand that lay idly in her lap, "in this hour of your distress you have at least one person who would console and comfort you—one man who loves you."

She raised her eyes to mine quickly, with a strange, eager look. Her glance was as though she did not fully realize the purport of my words. I knew myself to be a sad blunderer in the art of love, and wondered if my words were too blunt and abrupt.

"Ah!" she sighed. "If only I believed that those words came direct from your heart, Ralph!"

"They do," I assured her. "You received my letter at Hereford—you read what I wrote to you?"

"Yes," she answered. "I read it. But how can I believe in you further, after your unaccountable treatment? You forsook me without giving any reason. You can't deny that."

"I don't seek to deny it," I said. "On the contrary, I accept all the blame that may attach to me. I only ask your forgiveness," and bending to her in deep earnestness, I pressed the small hand that was within my grasp.

"But if you loved me, as you declare you have always done, why did you desert me in that manner?" she inquired, her large dark eyes turned seriously to mine.

I hesitated. Should I tell her the truth openly and honestly?

"Because of a fact which came to my knowledge," I answered, after a long pause.

"What fact?" she asked with some anxiety.

"I made a discovery," I said ambiguously.

"Regarding me?"

"Yes, regarding yourself," I replied, with my eyes fixed full upon hers. I saw that she started at my words, her countenance fell, and she caught her breath quickly.

"Well, tell me what it is," she asked in a hard tone, a tone which showed me that she had steeled herself for the worst.

"Forgive me if I speak the truth," I exclaimed. "You have asked me, and I will be perfectly frank with you. Well, I discovered amongst old Mr. Courtenay's papers a letter written by you several years ago which revealed the truth."

"The truth!" she gasped, her face blanched in an instant. "The truth of what?"

"That you were once engaged to become his wife."

Her breast heaved quickly, and I saw that my words had relieved her of some grave apprehension. When I declared that I knew "the truth" she believed that I spoke of the secret of Courtenay's masquerading. The fact of her previous engagement was, to her, of only secondary importance, for she replied:

"Well, and is that the sole cause of your displeasure?"

I felt assured, from the feigned flippancy of her words, that she held knowledge of the strange secret.

"It was the main cause," I said. "You concealed the truth from me, and lived in that man's house after he had married Mary."

"I had a reason for doing so," she exclaimed, in a quiet voice. "I did not live there by preference."

"You were surely not forced to do so."

"No; I was not forced. It was a duty." Then, after a pause, she covered her face with her hands and suddenly burst into tears, crying, "Ah, Ralph! If you could know all—all that I have suffered, you would not think ill of me! Appearances have been against me, that I know quite well. The discovery of that letter must have convinced you that I was a schemer and unworthy, and the fact that I lived beneath the roof of the man who had cast me off added colour to the theory that I had conceived some deep plot. Probably," she went on, speaking between her sobs, "probably you even suspected me of having had a hand in the terrible crime. Tell me frankly," she asked, gripping my arm, and looking up into my face. "Did you ever suspect me of being the assassin?"

I paused. What could I reply? Surely it was best to be open and straightforward. So I told her that I had not been alone in the suspicion, and that Ambler Jevons had shared it with me.

"Ah! that accounts for his marvellous ingenuity in watching me. For weeks past he has seemed to be constantly near me, making inquiries regarding my movements wherever I went. You both suspected me. But is it necessary that I should assert my innocence of such a deed?" she asked. "Are you not now convinced that it was not my hand that struck down old Mr. Courtenay?"

"Forgive me," I urged. "The suspicion was based upon ill-formed conclusions, and was heightened by your own peculiar conduct after the tragedy."

"That my conduct was strange was surely natural. The discovery was quite as appalling to me as to you; and, knowing that somewhere among the dead man's papers my letters were preserved, I dreaded lest they should fall into the hands of the police and thereby connect me with the crime. It was fear that my final letter should be discovered that gave my actions the appearance of guilt."

I took both her hands in mine, and fixing my gaze straight into those dear eyes wherein the love-look shone—that look by which a man is able to read a woman's heart—I asked her a question.

"Ethelwynn," I said, calmly and seriously, "we love each other. I know I've been suspicious without cause and cruel in my neglect; nevertheless the separation has quickened my affection, and has shown that to me life without you is impossible. You, darling, are the only woman who has entered my life. I have championed no woman save yourself; by no ties have I been bound to any woman in this world. This I would have you believe, for it is the truth. I could not lie to you if I would; it is the truth—God is my witness."

She made me no answer. Her hands trembled, and she bowed her head so that I could not see her face.

"Will you not forgive, dearest?" I urged. The great longing to speak out my mind had overcome me, and having eased myself of my burden I stood awaiting her response. "Will you not be mine again, as in the old days before this chain of tragedy fell upon your house?"

Again she hesitated for several minutes. Then, of a sudden, she lifted her tear-stained face towards me, all rosy with blushes and wearing that sweet look which I had known so well in the happy days bygone.

"If you wish it, Ralph," she faltered, "we will forget that any breach between us has ever existed. I desire nothing else; for, as you well know, I love no one else but you. I have been foolish, I know. I ought to have explained the girlish romantic affection I once entertained for that man who afterwards married Mary. In those days he was my ideal. Why, I cannot tell. Girls in their teens have strange caprices, and that was mine. Just as schoolboys fall violently in love with married women, so are schoolgirls sometimes attracted towards aged men. People wonder when they hear of May and December marriages; but they are not always from mercenary motives, as is popularly supposed. Nevertheless I acted wrongly in not telling you the truth from the first. I am alone to blame."

So much she said, though with many a pause, and with so keen a self-reproach in her tone that I could hardly bear to hear her, when I interrupted——

"There is mutual blame on both sides. Let us forget it all," and I bent until my lips met hers and we sealed our compact with a long, clinging caress.

"Yes, dear heart. Let us forget it," she whispered. "We have both suffered—both of us," and I felt her arms tighten about my neck. "Oh, how you must have hated me!"

"No," I declared. "I never hated you. I was mystified and suspicious, because I felt assured that you knew the truth regarding the tragedy at Kew, and remained silent."

She looked into my eyes, as though she would read my soul.

"Unfortunately," she answered, "I am not aware of the truth."

"But you are in possession of certain strange facts—eh?"

"That I am in possession of facts that lead me to certain conclusions, is the truth. But the clue is wanting. I have been seeking for it through all these months, but without success."

"Cannot we act in accord in this matter, dearest? May I not be acquainted with the facts which, with your intimate knowledge of the Courtenay household, you were fully acquainted with at the time of the tragedy?" I urged.

"No, Ralph," she replied, shaking her head, and at the same time pressing my hand. "I cannot yet tell you anything."

"Then you have no confidence in me?" I asked reproachfully.

"It is not a question of confidence, but one of honour," she replied.

"But you will at least satisfy my curiosity upon one point?" I exclaimed. "You will tell me the reason you lived beneath Courtenay's roof?"

"You know the reason well. He was an invalid, and I went there to keep Mary company."

I smiled at the lameness of her explanation. It was, however, an ingenious evasion of the truth, for, after all, I could not deny that I had known this through several years. Old Courtenay, being practically confined to his room, had himself suggested Ethelwynn bearing his young wife company.

"Answer me truthfully, dearest. Was there no further reason?"

She paused; and in her hesitation I detected a desire to deceive, even though I loved her so fondly.

"Yes, there was," she admitted at last, bowing her head.

"Explain it."

"Alas! I cannot. It is a secret."

"A secret from me?"

"Yes, dear heart!" she cried, clutching my hands with a wild movement. "Even from you."

My face must have betrayed the annoyance that I felt, for the next second she hastened to soften her reply by saying:

"At present it is impossible for me to explain. Think! Poor Mary is lying upstairs. I can say nothing at present—nothing—you understand."

"Then afterwards—after the burial—you will tell me what you know?"

"Until I discover the truth I am resolved to maintain silence. All I can tell you is that the whole affair is so remarkable and astounding that its explanation will be even more bewildering than the tangled chain of circumstances."

"Then you are actually in possession of the truth," I remarked with some impatience. "What use is there to deny it?"

"At present I have suspicions—grave ones. That is all," she protested.

"What is your theory regarding poor Mary's death?" I asked, hoping to learn something from her.

"Suicide. Of that there seems not a shadow of doubt."

I was wondering if she knew of the "dead" man's existence. Being in sisterly confidence with Mary, she probably did.

"Did it ever strike you," I asked, "that the personal appearance of Mr. Courtenay changed very considerably after death. You saw the body several times after the discovery. Did you notice the change?"

She looked at me sharply, as though endeavouring to discern my meaning.

"I saw the body several times, and certainly noticed a change in the features. But surely the countenance changes considerably if death is sudden?"

"Quite true," I answered. "But I recollect that, in making the post-mortem, Sir Bernard remarked upon the unusual change. He seemed to have grown fully ten years older than when I had seen him alive four hours before."

"Well," she asked, "is that any circumstance likely to lead to a solution of the mystery? I don't exactly see the point."

"It may," I answered ambiguously, puzzled at her manner and wondering if she were aware of that most unaccountable feature of the conspiracy.

"How?" she asked.

But as she had steadfastly refused to reveal her knowledge to me, or the reason of her residence beneath Courtenay's roof, I myself claimed the right to be equally vague.

We were still playing at cross-purposes; therefore I urged her to be frank with me. But she strenuously resisted all my persuasion.

"No. With poor Mary lying dead I can say nothing. Later, when I have found the clue for which I am searching, I will tell you what I know. Till then, no word shall pass my lips."

I knew too well that when my love made up her mind it was useless to try and turn her from her purpose. She was no shallow, empty-headed girl, whose opinion could be turned by any breath of the social wind or any invention of the faddists; her mind was strong and well-balanced, so that she always had the courage of her own convictions. Her sister, on the contrary, had been one of those giddy women who follow every frill and furbelow of Fashion, and who take up all the latest crazes with a seriousness worthy of better objects. In temperament, in disposition, in character, and in strength of mind they had been the exact opposite of each other; the one sister flighty and thoughtless, the other patient and forbearing, with an utter disregard for the hollow artificialities of Society.

"But in this matter we may be of mutual assistance to each other," I urged, in an effort to persuade her. "As far as I can discern, the mystery contains no fewer than seven complete and distinct secrets. To obtain the truth regarding one would probably furnish the key to the whole."

"Then you think that poor Mary's untimely death is closely connected with the tragedy at Kew?" she asked.

"Most certainly. But I do not share your opinion of suicide."

"What? You suspect foul play?" she cried.

I nodded in the affirmative.

"You believe that poor Mary was actually murdered?" she exclaimed, anxiously. "Have you found marks of violence, then?"

"No, I have found nothing. My opinion is formed upon a surmise."

"What surmise?"

I hesitated whether to tell her all the facts that I had discovered, for I was disappointed and annoyed that she should still preserve a dogged silence, now that a reconciliation had been brought about.

"Well," I answered, after a pause, "my suspicion of foul play is based upon logical conclusions. I have myself been witness of one most astonishing fact—namely, that she was in the habit of meeting a certain man clandestinely at night, and that their favourite walk was along the river bank."

"What!" she cried, starting up in alarm, all the colour fading from her face. "You have actually seen them together?"

"I have not only seen them, but I have overheard their conversation," I answered, surprised at the effect my words had produced upon her.

"Then you already know the truth!" she cried, in a wild voice that was almost a shriek. "Forgive me—forgive me, Ralph!" And throwing herself suddenly upon her knees she looked up into my face imploringly, her white hands clasped in an attitude of supplication, crying in a voice broken by emotion: "Forgive me, Ralph! Have compassion upon me!" and she burst into a flood of tears which no caress or tender effort of mine could stem.

I adored her with a passionate madness that was beyond control. She was, as she had ever been, my ideal—my all in all. And yet the mystery surrounding her was still impenetrable; an enigma that grew more complicated, more impossible of solution.



CHAPTER XXV.

FORMS A BEWILDERING ENIGMA.

"Found Drowned" was the verdict of the twelve respectable villagers who formed the Coroner's jury to inquire into the tragic death of young Mrs. Courtenay. It was the only conclusion that could be arrived at in the circumstances, there being no marks of violence, and no evidence to show how the unfortunate lady got into the river.

Ambler Jevons, who had seen a brief account of the affair in the papers, arrived hurriedly in time to attend the inquest; therefore it was not until the inquiry was over that we were enabled to chat. His appearance had changed during the weeks of his absence: his face seemed thinner and wore a worried, anxious expression.

"Well, Ralph, old fellow, this turns out to be a curious business, doesn't it?" he exclaimed, when, after leaving the public room of the Golden Ball, wherein the inquiry had been held, we had strolled on through the long straggling village of homely cottages with thatched roofs, and out upon the white, level highroad.

"Yes," I admitted. "It's more than curious. Frankly, I have a distinct suspicion that Mary was murdered."

"That's exactly my own opinion," he exclaimed quickly. "There's been foul play somewhere. Of that I'm certain."

"And do you agree with me, further, that it is the outcome of the tragedy at Kew?"

"Most certainly," he said. "That both husband and wife should be murdered only a few months after one another points to motives of revenge. You'll remember how nervous old Courtenay was. He went in constant fear of his life, it was said. That fact proves conclusively that he was aware of some secret enemy."

"Yes. Now that you speak of it, I recollect it quite well," I remarked, adding, "But where, in the name of Fortune, have you been keeping yourself during all these weeks of silence?"

"I've been travelling," he responded rather vaguely. "I've been going about a lot."

"And keeping watch on Ethelwynn during part of the time," I laughed.

"She told you, eh?" he exclaimed, rather apprehensively. "I didn't know that she ever recognised me. But women are always sharper than men. Still, I'm sorry that she saw me."

"There's no harm done—providing you've made some discovery regarding the seven secrets that compose the mystery," I said.

"Seven secrets!" he repeated thoughtfully, and then was silent a few moments, as though counting to himself the various points that required elucidation. "Yes," he said at last, "you're right, Ralph, there are seven of them—seven of the most extraordinary secrets that have ever been presented to mortal being as part of one and the same mystery."

He did not, of course, enumerate them in his mind, as I had done, for he was not aware of all the facts. The Seven Secrets, as they presented themselves to me, were: First, the identity of the secret assassin of Henry Courtenay; second, the manner in which that extraordinary wound had been caused; thirdly, the secret of Ethelwynn, held by Sir Bernard; fourthly, the secret motive of Ethelwynn in remaining under the roof of the man who had discarded her in favour of her sister; fifthly, the secret of Courtenay's reappearance after burial; sixthly, the secret of the dastardly attempt on my life by those ruffians of Lisson Grove; and, seventhly, the secret of Mary Courtenay's death. Each and every one of the problems was inscrutable. Others, of which I was unaware, had probably occurred to my friend. To him, just as to me, the secrets were seven.

"Now, be frank with me, Ambler," I said, after a long pause. "You've gained knowledge of some of them, haven't you?"

By his manner I saw that he was in possession of information of no ordinary character.

He paused, and slowly twisted his small dark moustache, at last admitting——

"Yes, Ralph, I have."

"What have you discovered?" I cried, in fierce eagerness. "Tell me the result of your inquiries regarding Ethelwynn. It is her connection with the affair which occupies my chief thoughts."

"For the present, my dear fellow, we must leave her entirely out of it," my friend said quietly. "To tell you the truth, after announcing my intention to give up the affair as a mystery impenetrable, I set to work and slowly formed a theory. Then I drew up a deliberate plan of campaign, which I carried out in its entirety."

"And the result?"

"Its result—" he laughed. "Well, when I'd spent several anxious weeks in making the most careful inquiries, I found, to my chagrin, that I was upon an entirely wrong scent, and that the person I suspected of being the assassin at Kew was innocent. There was no help for it but to begin all over again, and I did so. My inquiries then led me in an entirely opposite direction. I followed my new and somewhat startling theory, and found to my satisfaction that I had at length struck the right trail. Through a whole fortnight I worked on night and day, often snatching a few hours of sleep in railway carriages, and sometimes watching through the whole night—for when one pursues inquiries alone it is frequently imperative to keep watchful vigil. To Bath, to Hereford, to Edinburgh, to Birmingham, to Newcastle, and also to several places far distant in the South of England I travelled in rapid succession, until at last I found a clue, but one so extraordinary that at first I could not give it credence. Ten days have passed, and even now I refuse to believe that such a thing could be. I'm absolutely bewildered by it."

"Then you believe that you've at last gained the key to the mystery?" I said, eagerly drinking in his words.

"It seems as though I have. Yet my information is so very vague and shadowy that I can really form no decisive opinion. It is this mysterious death of Mrs. Courtenay that has utterly upset all my theories. Tell me plainly, Ralph, what causes you to suspect foul play? This is not a time for prevarication. We must be open and straightforward to each other. Tell me the absolute truth."

Should I tell him frankly of the amazing discovery I had made? I feared to do so, lest he should laugh me to scorn. The actual existence of Courtenay seemed too incredible. And yet as he was working to solve the problem, just as I was, there seemed every reason why we should be aware of each other's discoveries. We had both pursued independent inquiries into the Seven Secrets until that moment, and it was now high time we compared results.

"Well, Jevons," I exclaimed, hesitatingly, at last, "I have during the week elucidated one fact, a fact so strange that, when I tell you, I know you will declare that I was dreaming. I myself cannot account for it in the least. But that I was witness of it I will vouch. The mystery is a remarkable one, but what I've discovered adds to its inscrutability."

"Tell me," he urged quickly, halting and turning to me in eagerness. "What have you found out?"

"Listen!" I said. "Hear me through, until you discredit my story." Then, just as I have already written down the strange incidents in the foregoing chapters, I related to him everything that had occurred since the last evening he sat smoking with me in Harley Place.

He heard me in silence, the movements of his face at one moment betraying satisfaction, and at the next bewilderment. Once or twice he grunted, as though dissatisfied, until I came to the midnight incident beside the river, and explained how I had watched and what I had witnessed.

"What?" he cried, starting in sudden astonishment. "You actually saw him? You recognised Henry Courtenay!"

"Yes. He was walking with his wife, sometimes arm-in-arm."

He did not reply, but stood in silence in the centre of the road, drawing a geometrical design in the dust with the ferrule of his stick. It was his habit when thinking deeply.

I watched his dark countenance—that of a man whose whole thought and energy were centred upon one object.

"Ralph," he said at last, "what time is the next train to London?"

"Two-thirty, I think."

"I must go at once to town. There's work for me there—delicate work. What you've told me presents a new phase of the affair," he said in a strange, anxious tone.

"Does it strengthen your clue?" I asked.

"In a certain degree—yes. It makes clear one point which was hitherto a mystery."

"And also makes plain that poor Mrs. Courtenay met with foul play?" I suggested.

"Ah! For the moment, this latest development of the affair is quite beyond the question. We must hark back to that night at Richmond Road. I must go at once to London," he added, glancing at his watch. "Will you come with me?"

"Most willingly. Perhaps I can help you."

"Perhaps; we will see."

So we turned and retraced our steps to the house of mourning, where, having pleaded urgent consultations with patients, I took leave of Ethelwynn. We were alone, and I bent and kissed her lips in order to show her that my love and confidence had not one whit abated. Her countenance brightened, and with sudden joy she flung her arms around my neck and returned my caress, pleading—"Ralph! You will forgive—you will forgive me, won't you?"

"I love you, dearest!" was all that I could reply; and it was the honest truth, direct from a heart overburdened by mystery and suspicion.

Then with a last kiss I turned and left her, driving with Ambler Jevons to catch the London train.



CHAPTER XXVI.

AMBLER JEVONS IS BUSY.

The sleepy-eyed tea-blender of Mark Lane remained plunged in a deep reverie during the greater part of the journey to town, and on arrival at King's Cross declined to allow me to accompany him. This disappointed me. I was eager to pursue the clue, but no amount of persuasion on my part would induce him to alter his decision.

"At present I must continue alone, old fellow," he answered kindly. "It is best, after all. Later on I may want your help."

"The facts I've told you are of importance, I suppose?"

"Of the greatest importance," he responded. "I begin to see light through the veil. But if what I suspect is correct, then the affair will be found to be absolutely astounding."

"Of that I'm certain," I said. "When will you come in and spend an hour?"

"As soon as ever I can spare time," he answered. "To-morrow, or next day, perhaps. At present I have a very difficult task before me. Good-bye for the present." And hailing a hansom he jumped in and drove away, being careful not to give the address to the driver while within my hearing. Ambler Jevons had been born with the instincts of a detective. The keenness of his intellect was perfectly marvellous.

On leaving him I drove to Harley Street, where I found Sir Bernard busy with patients, and in rather an ill-temper, having been worried unusually by some smart woman who had been to consult him and had been pouring into his ear all her domestic woes.

"I do wish such women would go and consult somebody else," he growled, after he had been explaining her case to me. "Same symptoms as all of them. Nerves—owing to indigestion, late hours, and an artificial life. Wants me to order her to Carlsbad or somewhere abroad—so that she can be rid of her husband for a month or so. I can see the reason plain enough. She's got some little game to play. Faugh!" cried the old man, "such women only fill one with disgust."

I went on to tell him of the verdict upon the death of Mrs. Courtenay, and his manner instantly changed to one of sympathy.

"Poor Henry!" he exclaimed. "Poor little woman! I wonder that nothing has transpired to give the police a clue. To my mind, Boyd, there was some mysterious element in Courtenay's life that he entirely hid from his friends. In later years he lived in constant dread of assassination."

"Yes, that has always struck me as strange," I remarked.

"Has nothing yet been discovered?" asked my chief. "Didn't the police follow that manservant Short?"

"Yes, but to no purpose. They proved to their own satisfaction that he was innocent."

"And your friend Jevons—the tea-dealer who makes it a kind of hobby to assist the police. What of him? Has he continued his activity?"

"I believe so. He has, I understand, discovered a clue."

"What has he found?" demanded the old man, bending forward in eagerness across the table. He had been devoted to his friend Courtenay, and was constantly inquiring of me whether the police had met with any success.

"At present he will tell me nothing," I replied.

Sir Bernard gave vent to an exclamation of dissatisfaction, observing that he hoped Jevons' efforts would meet with success, as it was scandalous that a double tragedy of that character could occur in a civilized community without the truth being revealed and the assassin arrested.

"There's no doubt that the tragedy was a double one," I observed. "Although the jury have returned a verdict of 'Found Drowned' in the widow's case, the facts, even as far as at present known, point undoubtedly to murder."

"To murder!" he cried. "Then is it believed that she's been wilfully drowned?"

"That is the local surmise."

"Why?" he asked, with an eager look upon his countenance, for he took the most intense interest in every feature of the affair.

"Well, because it is rumoured that she had been seen late one night walking along the river-bank, near the spot where she was found, accompanied by a strange man."

"A strange man?" he echoed, his interest increased. "Did anyone see him sufficiently close to recognise him?"

"I believe not," I answered, hesitating at that moment to tell him all I knew. "The local police are making active inquiries, I believe."

"I wonder who it could have been?" Sir Bernard exclaimed reflectively. "Mrs. Courtenay was always so devoted to poor Henry, that the story of the stranger appears to me very like some invention of the villagers. Whenever a tragedy occurs in a rural district all kinds of absurd canards are started. Probably that's one of them. It is only natural for the rustic mind to connect a lover with a pretty young widow."

"Exactly. But I have certain reasons for believing the clandestine meeting to have taken place," I said.

"What causes you to give credence to the story?"

"Statements made to me," I replied vaguely. "And further, all the evidence points to murder."

"Then why did the jury return an open verdict?"

"It was the best thing they could do in the circumstances, as it leaves the police with a free hand."

"But who could possibly have any motive for the poor little woman's death?" he asked, with a puzzled, rather anxious expression upon his grey brow.

"The lover may have wished to get rid of her," I suggested.

"You speak rather ungenerously, Boyd," he protested. "Remember, we don't know for certain that there was a lover in the case, and we should surely accept the rumours of country yokels with considerable hesitation."

"I make no direct accusation," I said. "I merely give as my opinion that she was murdered by the man she was evidently in the habit of meeting. That's all."

"Well, if that is so, then I hope the police will be successful in making an arrest," declared the old physician. "Poor little woman! When is the funeral?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"I must send a wreath. How sad it is! How very sad!" And he sighed sympathetically, and sat staring with fixed eyes at the dark green wall opposite.

"It's time you caught your train," I remarked, glancing at the clock.

"No," he answered. "I'm dining at the House of Commons to-night with my friend Houston. I shall remain in town all night. I so very seldom allow myself any dissipation," and he smiled rather sadly.

Truly he led an anchorite's life, going to and fro with clockwork regularity, and denying himself all those diversions in Society which are ever at the command of a notable man. Very rarely did he accept an invitation to dine, and the fact that he lived down at Hove was in order to have a good excuse to evade people. He was a great man, with all a great man's little eccentricities.

The two following days passed uneventfully. Each evening, about ten, Ambler Jevons came in to smoke and drink. He stayed an hour, apparently nervous, tired, and fidgety in a manner quite unusual; but to my inquiries regarding the success of his investigations he remained dumb.

"Have you discovered anything?" I asked, eagerly, on the occasion of his second visit.

He hesitated, at length answering——

"Yes—and no. I must see Ethelwynn without delay. Telegraph and ask her to meet you here. I want to ask her a question."

"Do you still suspect her?"

He shrugged his shoulders with an air of distinct vagueness.

"Wire to her to-night," he urged. "Your man can take the message down to the Charing Cross office, and she'll get it at eight o'clock in the morning. The funeral is over, so there is nothing to prevent her coming to town."

I was compelled to agree to his suggestion, although loth to again bring pain and annoyance to my love. I knew how she had suffered when, a few days ago, I had questioned her, and I felt convinced by her manner that, although she had refused to speak, she herself was innocent. Her lips were sealed by word of honour.

According to appointment Jevons met me when I had finished my next morning's work at Guy's, and we took a glass of sherry together in a neighbouring bar. Then at his invitation I accompanied him along the Borough High Street and Newington Causeway to the London Road, until we came to a row of costermongers' barrows drawn up beside the pavement. Before one of these, piled with vegetables ready for the Saturday-night market, he stopped, and was immediately recognised by the owner—a tall, consumptive-looking man, whose face struck me somehow as being familiar.

"Well, Lane?" my companion said. "Busy, eh?"

"Not very, sir," was the answer, with the true cockney twang. "Trade ain't very brisk. There's too bloomin' many of us 'ere nowadays."

Leaving my side my companion advanced towards the man and whispered some confidential words that I could not catch, at the same time pulling something from his breast-pocket and showing it to him.

"Oh, yes, sir. No doubt abawt it!" I heard the man exclaim.

Then, in reply to a further question from Jevons, he said:

"'Arry 'Arding used to work at Curtis's. So I fancy that 'ud be the place to find out somethink. I'm keepin' my ears open, you bet," and he winked knowingly.

Where I had seen the man before I could not remember. But his face was certainly familiar.

When we left him and continued along the busy thoroughfare of cheap shops and itinerant vendors I asked my friend who he was, to which he merely replied:

"Well, he's a man who knows something of the affair. I'll explain later. In the meantime come with me to Gray's Inn Road. I have to make a call there," and he hailed a hansom, into which we mounted.

Twenty minutes later we alighted before a dingy-looking barber's shop and inquired for Mr. Harding—an assistant who was at that moment shaving a customer of the working class. It was a house where one could be shaved for a penny, but where the toilet accessories were somewhat primitive.

While I stood on the threshold Ambler Jevons asked the barber's assistant if he had ever worked at Curtis's, and if, while there, he knew a man whose photograph he showed him.

"Yes, sir," answered the barber, without a moment's hesitation. "That's Mr. Slade. He was a very good customer, and Mr. Curtis used always to attend on him himself."

"Slade, you say, is his name?" repeated my friend.

"Yes, sir."

Then, thanking him, we re-entered the cab and drove to an address in a street off Shaftesbury Avenue.

"Slade! Slade!" repeated Ambler Jevons to himself as we drove along. "That's the name I've been in search of for weeks. If I am successful I believe the Seven Secrets will resolve themselves into one of the most remarkable conspiracies of modern times. I must, however, make this call alone, Ralph. The presence of a second person may possibly prevent the man I'm going to see from making a full and straightforward statement. We must not risk failure in this inquiry, for I anticipate that it may give us the key to the whole situation. There's a bar opposite the Palace Theatre. I'll set you down there, and you can wait for me. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all, if you'll promise to explain the result of your investigations afterwards."

"You shall know everything later," he assured me, and a few minutes afterwards I alighted at the saloon bar he had indicated, a long lounge patronised a good deal by theatrical people.

He was absent nearly half-an-hour, and when he returned I saw from his face that he had obtained some information that was eminently satisfactory.

"I hope to learn something further this afternoon," he said before we parted. "If I do I shall be with you at four." Then he jumped into a hansom and disappeared. Jevons was a strange fellow. He rushed hither and thither, telling no one his business or his motives.

About the hour he had named he was ushered into my room. He had made a complete change in his appearance, wearing a tall hat and frock coat, with a black fancy waistcoat whereon white flowers were embroidered. By a few artistic touches he had altered the expression of his features too—adding nearly twenty years to his age. His countenance was one of those round, flexible ones that are so easily altered by a few dark lines.

"Well, Ambler?" I said anxiously, when we were alone. "What have you discovered?"

"Several rather remarkable facts," was his philosophic response. "If you care to accompany me I can show you to-night something very interesting."

"Care to accompany you?" I echoed. "I'm only too anxious."

He glanced at his watch, then flinging himself into the chair opposite me, said, "We've an hour yet. Have you got a drop of brandy handy?"

Then for the first time I noticed that the fresh colour of his cheeks was artificial, and that in reality he was exhausted and white as death. The difficulty in speaking that I had attributed to excitement was really due to exhaustion.

Quickly I produced the brandy, and gave him a stiff peg, which he swallowed at a single gulp. His eyes were no longer sleepy-looking, but there was a quick fire in them which showed me that, although suppressed, there burned within his heart a fierce desire to get at the truth. Evidently he had learned something since I left him, but what it was I could not gather.

I looked at the clock, and saw it was twenty minutes past six. He noticed my action, and said:

"If we start in an hour we shall have sufficient time."

Ambler Jevons was never communicative. But as he sat before me his brows were knit in deep thought, his hands chafed with suppressed agitation, and he took a second brandy-and-soda, an unusual indulgence, which betrayed an absent mind.

At length he rose, carefully brushed his silk hat, settled the hang of his frock-coat before the glass, tugged at his cravat, and then, putting on his light overcoat, announced his readiness to set out.

About half-an-hour later our cab set us down in Upper Street, Islington, close to the Agricultural Hall, and, proceeding on foot a short distance, we turned up a kind of court, over the entrance of which a lamp was burning, revealing the words "Lecture Hall."

Jevons produced two tickets, whereupon we were admitted into a long, low room filled by a mixed audience consisting of men. Upon the platform at the further end was a man of middle age, with short fair beard, grey eyes, and an alert, resolute manner—a foreigner by his dress—and beside him an Englishman of spruce professional appearance—much older, slightly bent, with grey countenance and white hair.

We arrived just at the moment of the opening of the proceedings. The Englishman, whom I set down to be a medical man, rose, and in introducing the lecturer beside him, said:

"I have the honour, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce to you Doctor Paul Deboutin—who, as most of you know, is one of the most celebrated medical men in Paris, professor at the Salpetriere, and author of many works upon nervous disorders. The study of the latter is not, unfortunately, sufficiently taken up in this country, and it is in order to demonstrate the necessity of such study that my friends and myself have invited Doctor Deboutin to give this lecture before an audience of both medical men and the laity. The doctor asks me to apologise to you for his inability to express himself well in English, but personally I have no fear that you will misunderstand him."

Then he turned, introduced the lecturer, and re-seated himself.

I was quite unprepared for such a treat. Deboutin, as every medical man is aware, is the first authority on nervous disorders, and his lectures have won for him a world-wide reputation. I had read all his books, and being especially struck with "Nevroses et Idees Fixes," a most convincing work, had longed to be present at one of his demonstrations. Therefore, forgetful that I was there for some unknown reason, I settled myself to listen.

Rapidly and clearly he spoke in fairly good English, with a decision that showed him to be perfect master at once of his subject and of the phrases with which he intended to clothe his thoughts. He briefly outlined the progress of his experiments at the Salpetriere, and at the hospitals of Lyons and Marseilles, then without long preliminary, proceeded to demonstrate a most interesting case.

A girl of about twenty-five, with a countenance only relieved from ugliness by a fine pair of bright dark eyes, was led in by an assistant and seated in a chair. She was of the usual type seen in the streets of Islington, poorly dressed with some attempt at faded finery—probably a workgirl in some city factory. She cast an uneasy glance upon the audience, and then turned towards the doctor, who drew his chair towards the patient so that her knees nearly touched his.

It was a case of nervous "Hemianopsie," or one-eyed vision, he explained.

Now the existence of this has always been denied, therefore the experiment was of the most intense interest to every medical man present.

First the doctor, after ordering the patient to look him straight in the face, held a pencil on the left side of her head, and found that, in common with most of us, she was conscious of its presence without moving her eyes, even when it was almost at the level of her ear. Then he tried the same experiment on the right side of the face, when it was at once plain that the power of lateral vision had broken down—for she answered, "No, sir. No, no," as he moved the pencil to and fro with the inquiry whether she could see it. Nevertheless he demonstrated that the power of seeing straight was quite unimpaired, and presently he gave to his assistant a kind of glass hemisphere, which he placed over the girl's head, and by which he measured the exact point on its scale where the power of lateral vision ceased.

This being found and noted, Professor Deboutin placed his hand upon the patient's eyes, and with a brief "You may sleep now, my girl," in broken English, she was asleep in a few seconds.

Then came the lecture. He verbally dissected her, giving a full and lucid explanation of the nervous system, from the spinal marrow and its termination in the coccyx, up to the cortex of the brain, in which he was of opinion that there was in that case a lesion—probably curable—amply accounting for the phenomenon present. So clear, indeed, were his remarks that even a layman could follow them.

At last the doctor awoke the patient, and was about to proceed with another experiment when his quick eye noticed a hardly-perceptible flutter of the eyelids. "Ah, you are tired," he said. "It is enough." And he conducted her to the little side door that gave exit from the platform.

The next case was one of the kind which is always the despair of doctors—hysteria. A girl, accompanied by her mother, a neatly-dressed, respectable-looking body, was led forward, but her hands were trembling, and her face working so nervously that the doctor had to reassure her. With a true cockney accent she said that she lived in Mile End, and worked at a pickle factory. Her symptoms were constant headache, sudden falls, and complete absence of sensation in her left hand, which greatly interfered with her work. Some of the questions were inconvenient—until, in answer to one regarding her father, she gave a cry that "Poor father died last year," and broke into an agony of weeping. In a moment the doctor took up an anthropometric instrument from the table, and made a movement as though to touch her presumably insensible hand.

"Ah, you'll hurt me!" she said. Presently, while her attention was attracted in another direction, he touched the hand with the instrument, when she drew it back with a yell of pain, showing that the belief that her hand was insensible was entirely due to hysteria. He analysed her case just as he had done the first, and declared that by a certain method of treatment, too technical to be here explained, a complete cure could be effected.

Another case of hysteria followed, and then a terrible exhibition of a wild-haired woman suffering from what the lecturer described as a "crise des nerfs," which caused her at will to execute all manner of horrible contortions as though she were possessed. She threw herself on the floor on her back, with her body arched so that it rested only on her head and heels, while she delivered kicks at those in front of her, not with her toes, but with her heels. Meanwhile her face was so congested as to appear almost black.

The audience were, I think, relieved when the poor unfortunate woman, calmed by Deboutin's method of suggestion, was led quietly away, and her place taken by a slim, red-haired girl of more refined appearance than the others, but with a strange stony stare as though unconscious of her surroundings. She was accompanied by a short, wizened-faced old lady, her grandmother.

At this juncture the chairman rose and said:

"This case is of great interest, inasmuch as it is a discovery made by my respected colleague, whom we all know by repute, Sir Bernard Eyton."

The mention of my chief's name was startling. I had no idea he had taken any interest in the French methods. Indeed, he had always declared to me that Charcot and his followers were a set of charlatans.

"We have the pleasure of welcoming Sir Bernard here this evening," continued the chairman; "and I shall ask him to kindly explain the case."

With apparent reluctance the well-known physician rose, after being cordially welcomed to the platform by the French savant, adjusted his old-fashioned glasses, and commenced to introduce the subject. His appearance there was certainly quite unexpected, but as I glanced at Ambler I saw a look of triumph in his face. We were sitting at the back of the hall, and I knew that Sir Bernard, being short-sighted, could not recognise us at the distance.

"I am here at Doctor Fulton's invitation to meet our great master, Professor Deboutin, of whom for many years I have been a follower." Then he went on to express the pleasure it gave him to demonstrate before them a case which he declared was not at all uncommon, although hitherto unsuspected by medical men.

Behind the chair of the new-comer stood the strange-looking old lady—who answered for her grand-daughter, the latter being mute. Her case was one, Sir Bernard explained, of absence of will. With a few quick questions he placed the history of the case before his hearers. There was a bad family history—a father who drank, and a mother who suffered from epilepsy. At thirteen the girl had received a sudden fright owing to a practical joke, and from that moment she gradually came under the influence of some hidden unknown terror so that she even refused to eat altogether. The strangest fact, however, was that she could still eat and speak in secret, although in public she was entirely dumb, and no amount of pleasure or pain would induce her to utter a sound.

"This," explained Sir Bernard, "is one of the many cases of absence of will, partial or entire, which has recently come beneath my notice. My medical friends, and also Professor Deboutin, will agree that at the age the patient received her fright many girls are apt to tend towards what the Charcot School term 'aboulie,' or, in plain English, absence of will. Now one of the most extraordinary symptoms of this is terror. Terror," he said, "of performing the simplest functions of nature; terror of movement, terror of eating—though sane in every other respect. Some there are, too, in whom this terror is developed upon one point only, and in such the inequality of mental balance can, as a rule, only be detected by one who has made deep research in this particular branch of nervous disorders."

The French professor followed with a lengthy discourse, in which he bestowed the highest praise upon Sir Bernard for his long and patient experiments, which, he said, had up to the present been conducted in secret, because he feared that if it were known he had taken up that branch of medical science he might lose his reputation as a lady's doctor.

Then, just as the meeting was being brought to a conclusion, Jevons touched me on the shoulder, and we both slipped out.

"Well," he asked. "What do you think of it all?"

"I've been highly interested," I replied. "But how does this further our inquiries, or throw any light on the tragedy?"

"Be patient," was his response, as we walked together in the direction of the Angel. "Be patient, and I will show you."



CHAPTER XXVII.

MR. LANE'S ROMANCE.

The Seven Secrets, each distinct from each other and yet connected; each one in itself a complete enigma, formed a problem of which even Ambler Jevons himself could not discover the solution.

Contrary to his usual methods, he allowed me to accompany him in various directions, making curious inquiries that had apparently nothing to connect them with the mystery of the death of Mr. and Mrs. Courtenay.

In reply to a wire I had sent to Ethelwynn came a message saying that her mother was entirely prostrated, therefore she could not at present leave her. This, when shown to Ambler, caused him to purse his lips and raise his shoulders with that gesture of suspicion which was a peculiarity of his. Was it possible that he actually suspected her?

The name of Slade seemed ever in Jevons' mind. Indeed, most of his inquiries were regarding some person of that name.

One evening, after dining together, he took me in a cab across the City to the Three Nuns Hotel, at Aldgate—where, in the saloon bar, we sat drinking. Before setting out he had urged me to put on a shabby suit of clothes and a soft hat, so that in the East End we should not attract attention as "swells." As for his own personal appearance, it was certainly not that of the spruce city man. He was an adept at disguises, and on this occasion wore a reefer jacket, a peaked cap, and a dark violet scarf in lieu of collar, thus presenting the aspect of a seafarer ashore. He smoked a pipe of the most approved nautical type, and as we sat together in the saloon he told me sea stories, in order that a group of men sitting near might overhear.

That he had some object in all this was quite certain, but what it was I could not gather.

Suddenly, after an hour, a little under-sized old man of dirty and neglected appearance, who had been drinking at the bar, shuffled up to us, and whispered something to Ambler that I did not catch. The words, nevertheless, caused my companion to start, and, disregarding the fresh whiskey and soda he had just ordered, he rose and walked out—an example which I followed.

"Lanky sent me, sir," the old man said, addressing Ambler, when we were out in the street. "He couldn't come hisself. 'E said you'd like to know the news."

"Of course, I was waiting for it," replied my companion, alert and eager.

"Well," he said, "I suppose I'd better tell yer the truth at once, sir."

"Certainly. What is it?"

"Well, Lanky's dead."

"Dead?" cried Ambler. "Impossible. I was waiting for him."

"I know. This morning in the Borough Market he told me to come 'ere and find you, because he wasn't able to come. 'E had a previous engagement. Lanky's engagements were always interestin'," he added, with a grim smile.

"Well, go on," said Ambler, eagerly. "What followed?"

"'E told me to go down to Tait Street and see 'im at eight o'clock, as 'e had a message for you. I went, and when I got there I found 'im lying on the floor of his room stone dead."

"You went to the police, of course?"

"No, I didn't; I came here to see you instead. I believe the poor bloke's been murdered. 'E was a good un, too—poor Lanky Lane!"

"What!" I exclaimed. "Is that man Lane dead?"

"It seems so," Jevons responded. "If he is, then there we have further mystery."

"If you doubt it, sir, come with me down to Shadwell," the old man said in his cockney drawl. "Nobody knows about it yet. I ought to have told the p'lice, but I know you're better at mysterious affairs than the silly coppers in Leman Street."

Jevons' fame as an investigator of crime had spread even to that class known as the submerged tenth. How fashions change! A year or two ago it was the mode in Society to go "slumming." To-day only social reformers and missionaries make excursions to the homes of the lower class in East London. A society woman would not to-day dare admit that she had been further east than Leadenhall Street.

"Let's go and see what has really happened," Ambler said to me. "If Lane is dead, then it proves that his enemy is yours."

"I can't see that. How?" I asked.

"You will see later. For the moment we must occupy ourselves with his death, and ascertain whether it is owing to natural causes or to foul play. He was a heavy drinker, and it may have been that."

"No," declared the little old man, "Lanky wasn't drunk to-day—that I'll swear. I saw 'im in Commercial Road at seven, talkin' to a feller wot's in love wiv 'is sister."

"Then how do you account for this discovery of yours?" asked my companion.

"I can't account for it, guv'nor. I simply found 'im lying on the floor, and it give me a shock, I can tell yer. 'E was as cold as ice."

"Let's go and see ourselves," Ambler said: so together we hurried through the Whitechapel High Street, at that hour busy with its costermonger market, and along Commercial Road East, arriving at last in the dirty, insalubrious thoroughfare, a veritable hive of the lowest class of humanity, Tait Street, Shadwell.