Up the dark stairs of one of the dirtiest of the dwellings our conductor guided us, lighting our steps with wax vestas, struck upon the wall, and on gaining the third floor of the evil-smelling place he pushed open a door, and we found ourselves in an unlit room.

"Don't move, gentlemen," the old man urged. "You may fall over 'im. 'E's right there, just where you're standin'. I'll light the lamp."

Then he struck another match, and by its fickle light we saw the body of Lane, the street-hawker, lying full length only a yard from us, just as our conductor had described.

The cheap and smelling paraffin lamp being lit, I took a hasty glance around the poor man's home. There was but little furniture save the bed, a chair or two, and a rickety table. Upon the latter was one of those flat bottles known as a "quartern." Our first attention, however, was to the prostrate man. A single glance was sufficient to show that he was dead. His eyes were closed, his hands clenched, and his body was bent as though he had expired in a final paroxysm of agony. The teeth, too, were hard set, and there were certain features about his appearance that caused me to entertain grave suspicion from the first. His thin, consumptive face, now blanched, was strangely drawn, as though the muscles had suddenly contracted, and there was an absence of that composure one generally expects to find in the faces of those who die naturally.

As a medical man I very soon noted sufficient appearances to tell me that death had been due either to suicide or foul play. The former seemed to me the most likely.

"Well?" asked Ambler, rising from his knees when I had concluded the examination of the dead man's skinny, ill-nourished body. "What's your opinion, Ralph?"

"He's taken poison," I declared.

"Poison? You believe he's been poisoned."

"It may have been wilful murder, or he may have taken it voluntarily," I answered. "But it is most evident that the symptoms are those of poisoning."

Ambler gave vent to a low grunt, half of satisfaction, half of suspicion. I knew that grunt well. When on the verge of any discovery he always emitted that guttural sound.

"We'd better inform the police," I remarked. "That's all we can do. The poor fellow is dead."

"Dead! Yes, we know that. But we must find out who killed him."

"Well," I said, "I think at present, Ambler, we've quite sufficient on our hands without attempting to solve any further problems. The poor man may have been in despair and have taken poison wilfully."

"In despair!" echoed the old man. "No fear. Lanky was happy enough. 'E wasn't the sort of fellow to hurry hisself out o' the world. He liked life too jolly well. Besides, he 'ad a tidy bit o' money in the Savin's Bank. 'E was well orf once, wer' Lanky. Excuse me for interruptin'."

"Well, if he didn't commit suicide," I remarked, "then, according to all appearances, poison was administered to him wilfully."

"That appears to be the most feasible theory," Ambler said. "Here we have still a further mystery."

Of course, the post-mortem appearances of poisoning, except in a few instances, are not very characteristic. As every medical man is aware, poison, if administered with a criminal intent, is generally in such a dose as to take immediate effect—although this is by no means necessary, as there are numerous substances which accumulate in the system, and when given in small and repeated quantities ultimately prove fatal—notably, antimony. The diagnosis of the effects of irritant poisons is not so difficult as it is in the case of narcotics or other neurotics, where the symptoms are very similar to those produced by apoplexy, epilepsy, tetanus, convulsions, or other forms of disease of the brain. Besides, one of the most difficult facts we have to contend with in such cases is that poison may be found in the body, and yet a question may arise as to its having been the cause of death.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

"POOR MRS. COURTENAY."

Ambler appeared to be much concerned regarding the poor man's death. When we had first met beside his vegetable barrow in the London Road he certainly seemed a hard-working, respectable fellow, with a voice rendered hoarse and rough by constantly shouting his wares. But by the whispered words that had passed I knew that Ambler was in his confidence. The nature of this I had several times tried to fathom.

His unexpected death appeared to have upset all Ambler's plans. He grunted and took a tour round the poorly-furnished chamber.

"Look here!" he said, halting in front of me. "There's been foul play here. We must lose no time in calling the police—not that they are likely to discover the truth."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because the poor fellow has been the victim of a secret assassin."

"Then you suspect a motive?"

"I believe that there is a motive why his lips should be closed—a strange and remote one." Then, turning to the old fellow who had been the dead man's friend, he asked: "Do you know anyone by the name of Slade?"

"Slade?" repeated the croaking old fellow. "Slade? No, sir. I don't recollect anyone of that name. Is it a man or a woman?"

"Either."

"No, sir."

"Do you know if Lanky Lane ever had visitors here—I mean visitors not of his own class?"

"I never 'eard of none. Lanky wasn't the sort o' chap to trouble about callers. He used to spend 'is nights in the Three Nuns wiv us; but he'd sit 'ours over two o' gin. 'E saved 'is money, 'e did."

"But look here," exclaimed Ambler, seriously. "Are you quite certain that you've never seen him with any stranger at nights?"

"Never to my knowledge."

"Well," my companion said, "you'd better go and call the police."

When the old fellow had shuffled away down the rickety stairs, Ambler, turning to me, said abruptly:

"That fellow is lying; he knows something about this affair."

I had taken up the empty dram bottle and smelt it. The spirit it had contained was rum—which had evidently been drunk from the bottle, as there was no glass near. A slight quantity remained, and this I placed aside for analysis if necessary.

"I can't see what this poor fellow has to do with the inquiry upon which we are engaged, Ambler," I remarked. "I do wish you'd be more explicit. Mystery seems to heap upon mystery."

"Yes. You're right," he said reflectively. "Slowly—very slowly, I am working out the problem, Ralph. It has been a long and difficult matter; but by degrees I seem to be drawing towards a conclusion. This," and he pointed to the man lying dead, "is another of London's many mysteries, but it carries us one step further."

"I can't, for the life of me, see what connection the death of this poor street hawker has with the strange events of the immediate past."

"Remain patient. Let us watch the blustering inquiries of the police," he laughed. "They'll make a great fuss, but will find out nothing. The author of this crime is far too wary."

"But this man Slade?" I said. "Of late your inquiries have always been of him. What is his connection with the affair?"

"Ah, that we have yet to discover. He may have no connection, for aught I know. It is mere supposition, based upon a logical conclusion."

"What motive had you in meeting this man here to-night?" I inquired, hoping to gather some tangible clue to the reason of his erratic movements.

"Ah! that's just the point," he responded. "If this poor fellow had lived he would have revealed to me a secret—we should have known the truth!"

"The truth!" I gasped. "Then at the very moment when he intended to confess to you he has been struck down."

"Yes. His lips have been sealed by his enemy—and yours. Both are identical," he replied, and his lips snapped together in that peculiar manner that was his habit. I knew it was useless to question him further.

Indeed, at that moment heavy footsteps sounded upon the stairs, and two constables, conducted by the shuffling old man, appeared upon the scene.

"We have sent for you," Ambler explained. "This man is dead—died suddenly, we believe."

"Who is he, sir?" inquired the elder of the pair, bending over the prostrate man, and taking up the smoky lamp in order to examine his features more carefully.

"His name is Lane—a costermonger, known as Lanky Lane. The man with you is one of his friends, and can tell you more about him than I can."

"Is he dead?" queried the second constable, touching the thin, pallid face.

"Certainly," I answered. "I'm a doctor, and have already made an examination. He's been dead some time."

My name and address was taken, together with that of my companion. When, however, Ambler told the officers his name, both were visibly impressed. The name of Jevons was well known to the police, who held him in something like awe as a smart criminal investigator.

"I know Inspector Barton at Leman Street—your station, I suppose?" he added.

"Yes, sir," responded the first constable. "And begging your pardon, sir, I'm honoured to meet you. We all heard how you beat the C. I. Department in the Bowyer Square Mystery, and how you gave the whole information to Sergeant Payling without taking any of the credit to yourself. He got all the honour, sir, and your name didn't appear at the Old Bailey."

Jevons laughed. He was never fond of seeing his name in print. He made a study of the ways and methods of the criminal, but only for his own gratification. The police knew him well, but he hid his light under the proverbial bushel always.

"What is your own opinion of the affair, sir?" the officer continued, ready to take his opinion before that of the sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Department attached to his station.

"Well," said Ambler, "it looks like sudden death, doesn't it? Perhaps it's poison."

"Suicide?"

"Murder, very possibly," was Jevons' quiet response.

"Then you really think there's a mystery, sir?" exclaimed the constable quickly.

"It seems suspiciously like one. Let us search the room. Come along Ralph," he added, addressing me. "Just lend a hand."

There was not much furniture in the place to search, and before long, with the aid of the constable's lantern, we had investigated every nook and cranny.

Only one discovery of note was made, and it was certainly a strange one.

Beneath a loose board, near the fireplace, Jevons discovered the dead man's hoard. It consisted of several papers carefully folded together. We examined them, and found them to consist of a hawker's licence, a receipt for the payment for a barrow and donkey, a post-office savings bank book, showing a balance of twenty-six pounds four shillings, and several letters from a correspondent unsigned. They were type-written, in order that the handwriting should not be betrayed, and upon that flimsy paper used in commercial offices. All of them were of the highest interest. The first, read aloud by Ambler, ran as follows:—

"Dear Lane,—I have known you a good many years, and never thought you were such a fool as to neglect a good thing. Surely you will reconsider the proposal I made to you the night before last in the bar of the Elephant and Castle? You once did me a very good turn long ago, and now I am in a position to put a good remunerative bit of business in your way. Yet you are timid that all may not turn out well! Apparently you do not fully recognise the stake I hold in the matter, and the fact that any exposure would mean ruin to me. Surely I have far more to lose than you have. Therefore that, in itself, should be sufficient guarantee to you. Reconsider your reply, and give me your decision to-morrow night. You will find me in the saloon bar of the King Lud, in Ludgate Hill, at eight o'clock. Do not speak to me there, but show yourself, and then wait outside until I join you. Have a care that you are not followed. That hawk Ambler Jevons has scent of us. Therefore, remain dumb and watchful—Z."

"That's curious," I remarked. "Whoever wrote that letter was inciting Lane to conspiracy, and at the same time held you in fear, Ambler."

My companion laughed again—a quiet self-satisfied laugh. Then he commenced the second letter, type-written like the first, but evidently upon another machine.

"Dear Lane,—Your terms seem exorbitant. I quite understand that at least four or five of you must be in the affair, but the price asked is ridiculous. Besides, I didn't like Bennett's tone when he spoke to me yesterday. He was almost threatening. What have you told him? Recollect that each of us knows something to the detriment of the other, and even in these days of so-called equality the man with money is always the best. You must contrive to shut Bennett's mouth. Give him money, if he wants it—up to ten pounds. But, of course, do not say that it comes from me. You can, of course, pose as my friend, as you have done before. I shall be at the usual place to-night.—Z."

"Looks as though there's been some blackmailing," one of the constables remarked. "Who's Bennett?"

"I expect that's Bobby Bennett who works in the Meat Market," replied the atom of a man who had accosted us at Aldgate. "He was a friend of Lanky's, and a bad 'un. I've 'eard say that 'e 'ad a record at the Old Bailey."

"What for?"

"'Ousebreakin'."

"Is he working now?" Ambler inquired.

"Yes. I saw 'im in Farrin'don Street yesterday."

"Ah!" remarked the constable. "We shall probably want to have a chat with him. But the chief mystery is the identity of the writer of these letters. At all events it is evident that this poor man Lane knew something to his detriment, and was probably trying to make money out of that knowledge."

"Not at all an unusual case," I said.

Jevons grunted, and appeared to view the letters with considerable satisfaction. Any documentary evidence surrounding a case of mysterious death is always of interest. In this case, being of such a suspicious nature, it was doubly so.

"Are you quite decided not to assist me?" another letter ran. It was likewise type-written, and from the same source. "Recollect you did so once, and were well paid for it. You had enough to keep you in luxury for years had you not so foolishly frittered it away on your so-called friends. Any of the latter would give you away to the police to-morrow for a five-pound note. This, however, is my last appeal to you. If you help me I shall give you one hundred pounds, which is not bad payment for an hour's work. If you do not, then you will not hear from me again.—Z."

"Seems a bit brief, and to the point," was the elder constable's remark. "I wonder what is the affair mentioned by this mysterious correspondent? Evidently the fellow intended to bring off a robbery, or something, and Lane refused to give his aid."

"Apparently so," replied Ambler, fingering the last letter remaining in his hand. "But this communication is even of greater interest," he added, turning to me and showing me writing in a well-known hand.

"I know that writing!" I cried. "Why—that letter is from poor Mrs. Courtenay!"

"It is," he said, quietly. "Did I not tell you that we were on the eve of a discovery, and that the dead man lying there could have told us the truth?"



CHAPTER XXIX.

THE POLICE ARE AT FAULT.

Ambler Jevons read the letter, then handed it to me without comment.

It was written upon the note-paper I knew so well, stamped with the neat address "Neneford," in black, but bearing no date. What I read was as follows:—

"Sir,—I fail to comprehend the meaning of your words when you followed me into the train at Huntingdon last night. I am in no fear of any catastrophe; therefore I can only take your offer of assistance as an attempt to obtain money from me. If you presume to address me again I shall have no other course than to acquaint the police.

"Yours truly

"MARY COURTENAY."

"Ah!" I exclaimed. "Then he warned her, and she misunderstood his intention."

"Without a doubt," said Ambler, taking the letter from my hand. "This was written probably only a few days before her death. That man," and he glanced at the prostrate body, "was the only one who could give us the clue by which to unravel the mystery."

But the dead man's lips had closed, and his secret was held for ever. Only those letters remained to connect him with the river tragedy; or rather to show that he had communicated with the unfortunate Mrs. Courtenay.

In company we walked to Leman Street Police Station, one of the chief centres of the Metropolitan Police in the East End, and there, in an upper office, Ambler had a long consultation with the sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Department.

I described the appearance of the body, and stated my suspicions of poisoning, all of which the detective carefully noted before going forth to make his own examination. My address was taken, so that I might assist at the post-mortem, and then, shortly after midnight I drove back westward through the City with Ambler at my side.

He spoke little, and when in Oxford Street, just at the corner of Newman Street, he descended, wished me a hurried good-night, and disappeared into the darkness. He was often given to strange vagaries of erratic movement. It was as though some thought had suddenly occurred to him, and he acted at once upon it.

That night I scarcely closed my eyes. My brain was awhirl with thoughts of all the curious events of the past few months—the inexplicable presence of old Mr. Courtenay, and the subsequent death of Mary and of the only man who, according to Ambler, knew the remarkable secret.

Ethelwynn's strange words worried me. What could she mean? What did she know? Surely hers could not be a guilty conscience. Yet, in her words and actions I had detected that cowardice which a heavy conscience always engenders. One by one I dissected and analysed the Seven Secrets, but not in one single instance could I obtain a gleam of the truth.

While at the hospital next day I was served with a notice to assist at the post-mortem of the unfortunate Lane, whose body was lying in the Shadwell mortuary; and that same afternoon I met by appointment Doctor Tatham, of the London Hospital, who, as is well known, is an expert toxicologist.

To describe in technical detail the examination we made would not interest the general reader of this strange narrative. The average man or woman knows nothing or cares less for the duodenum or the pylorus; therefore it is not my intention to go into long and wearying detail. Suffice it to say that we preserved certain portions of the body for subsequent examination, and together were engaged the whole evening in the laboratory of the hospital. Tatham was well skilled in the minutiae of the tests. The exact determination of the cause of death in cases of poisoning always depends partly on the symptoms noted before death, and partly on the appearances found after death. Regarding the former, neither of us knew anything; hence our difficulties were greatly increased. The object of the analyst is to obtain the substances which he has to examine chemically in as pure a condition as possible, so that there may be no doubt about the results of his tests; also, of course, to separate active substances from those that are inert, all being mixed together in the stomach and alimentary canal. Again, in dealing with such fluids as the blood, or the tissues of the body, their natural constituents must be got rid of before the foreign and poisonous body can be reached. There is this difficulty further to contend with: that some of the most poisonous of substances are of unstable composition and are readily altered by chemical reagents; to this group belong many vegetable and most animal poisons. These, therefore, must be treated differently from the more stable inorganic compounds. With an inorganic poison we may destroy all organic materials mixed with it, trusting to find the poison still recognisable after this process. Not so with an organic substance; that must be separated by other than destructive means.

Through the whole evening we tested for the various groups of poisons—corrosives, simple irritants, specific irritants and neurotics. It was a long and scientific search.

Some of the tests with which I was not acquainted I watched with the keenest interest, for, of all the medical men in London, Tatham was the most up to date in such analyses.

At length, after much work with acids, filtration, and distillation, we determined that a neurotic had been employed, and that its action on the vasomotor system of the nerves was very similar, if not identical, with nitrate of amyl.

Further than that, even Tatham, expert in such matters, could not proceed. Hours of hard work resulted in that conclusion, and with it we were compelled to be satisfied.

In due course the inquest was held at Shadwell, and with Ambler I attended as a witness. The reporters, of course, expected a sensation; but, on the contrary, our evidence went to show that, as the poisonous substance was found in the "quartern" bottle on deceased's table, death was in all probability due to suicide.

Some members of the jury took an opposite view. Then the letters we had found concealed were produced by the police, and, of course, created a certain amount of interest. But to the readers of newspapers the poisoning of a costermonger at Shadwell is of little interest as compared with a similar catastrophe in that quarter of London vaguely known as "the West End." The letters were suspicious, and both coroner and jury accepted them as evidence that Lane was engaged upon an elaborate scheme of blackmail.

"Who is this Mary Courtenay, who writes to him from Neneford?" inquired the coroner of the inspector.

"Well, sir," the latter responded, "the writer herself is dead. She was found drowned a few days ago near her home under suspicious circumstances."

Then the reporters commenced to realize that something extraordinary was underlying the inquiry.

"Ah!" remarked the coroner, one of the most acute officials of his class. "Then, in face of this, her letter seems to be more than curious. For aught we know the tragedy at Neneford may have been wilful murder; and we have now the suicide of the assassin?"

"That, sir, is the police theory," replied the inspector.

"Police theory be hanged!" ejaculated Ambler, almost loud enough to be heard. "The police know nothing of the case, and will never learn anything. If the jury are content to accept such an explanation, and brand poor Lane as a murderer, they must be allowed to do so."

I knew Jevons held coroners' juries in the most supreme contempt; sometimes rather unreasonably so, I thought.

"Well," the coroner said, "this is certainly remarkable evidence," and he turned the dead woman's letter over in his hand. "It is quite plain that the deceased approached the lady ostensibly to give her warning of some danger, but really to blackmail her; for what reason does not at present appear. He may have feared her threat to give information to the police; hence his crime, and subsequent suicide."

"Listen!" exclaimed Jevons in my ear. "They are actually trying the dead man for a crime he could not possibly have committed! They've got hold of the wrong end of the stick, as usual. Why don't they give a verdict of suicide and have done with it. We can't afford to waste a whole day explaining theories to a set of uneducated gentlemen of the Whitechapel Road. The English law is utterly ridiculous where coroners' juries are concerned."

The coroner heard his whispering, and looked towards us severely.

"We have not had sufficient time to investigate the whole of the facts connected with Mrs. Courtenay's mysterious death," the inspector went on. "You will probably recollect, sir, a mystery down at Kew some little time ago. It was fully reported in the papers, and created considerable sensation—an old gentleman was murdered under remarkable circumstances. Well, sir, the gentleman in question was Mrs. Courtenay's husband."

The coroner sat back in his chair and stared at the officer who had spoken, while in the court a great sensation was caused. Mention of the Kew Mystery brought its details vividly back to the minds of everyone. Yes. After all, the death of that poor costermonger, Lanky Lane, was of greater public interest than the representatives of the Press anticipated.

"Are you quite certain of this?" the coroner queried.

"Yes, sir. I am here by the direction of the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard to give evidence. I was engaged upon the case at Kew, and have also made inquiries into the mystery at Neneford."

"Then you have suspicion that the deceased was—well, a person of bad character?"

"We have."

"Fools!" growled Ambler. "Lane was a policeman's 'nose,' and often obtained payment from Scotland Yard for information regarding the doings of a certain gang of thieves. And yet they actually declare him to be a bad character. Preposterous!"

"Do you apply for an adjournment?"

"No, sir. We anticipate that the verdict will be suicide—the only one possible in face of the evidence."

And then, as though the jury were compelled to act upon the inspector's suggestion, they returned a simple verdict. "That the deceased committed suicide by poisoning while of unsound mind."



CHAPTER XXX.

SIR BERNARD'S DECISION.

For fully a week I saw nothing of Ambler.

Sir Bernard was unwell, and remained down at Hove; therefore I was compelled to attend to his practice. There were several serious cases, the patients being persons of note; thus I was kept very busy.

My friend's silence was puzzling. I wrote to him, but received no response. A wire to his office in the City elicited the fact that Mr. Jevons was out of town. Probably he was still pursuing the inquiry he had so actively taken up. Nevertheless, I was dissatisfied that he should leave me so entirely in the dark as to his intentions and discoveries.

Ethelwynn came to town for the day, and I spent several hours shopping with her. She was strangely nervous, and all the old spontaneous gaiety seemed to have left her. She had read in the papers of the curious connection between the death of the man Lane and that of her unfortunate sister; therefore our conversation was mainly upon the river mystery. Sometimes she seemed ill at ease with me, as though fearing some discovery. Perhaps, however, it was merely my fancy.

I loved her. She was all the world to me; and yet in her eyes I seemed to read some hidden secret which she was endeavouring, with all the power at her command, to conceal. In such circumstances there was bound to arise between us a certain reserve that we had not before known. Her conversation was carried on in a mechanical manner, as though distracted by her inner thoughts; and when, after having tea together in Bond Street, we drove to the station, and I saw her off on her return to Neneford, my mind was full of darkest apprehensions.

Yes. That interview convinced me more than ever that she was, in some manner, cognisant of the truth. The secret existence of old Mr. Courtenay, the man whom I myself had pronounced dead, was the crowning point of the strange affair; and yet I felt by some inward intuition that this fact was not unknown to her.

All the remarkable events of that moonlit night when I had followed husband and wife along the river-bank came back to me, and I saw vividly the old man's face, haggard and drawn, just as it had been in life. Surely there could be no stranger current of events than those which formed the Seven Secrets. They were beyond explanation—all of them. I knew nothing. I had certainly seen results; but I knew not their cause.

Nitrate of amyl was not a drug which a costermonger would select with a view to committing suicide. Indeed, I daresay few of my readers, unless they are doctors or chemists, have ever before heard of it. Therefore my own conclusion, fully endorsed by the erratic Ambler, was that the poor fellow had been secretly poisoned.

Nearly a fortnight passed, and I heard nothing of Ambler. He was still "out of town." Day by day passed, but nothing of note transpired. Sir Bernard was still suffering from a slight touch of sciatica at home, and on visiting him one Sunday I found him confined to his bed, grumbling and peevish. He was eccentric in his miserly habits and his hatred of society, beyond doubt; and the absurdities which his enemies attributed to him were not altogether unfounded. But he had, at all events, the rare quality of entertaining for his profession a respect nearly akin to enthusiasm. Indeed, according to his views, the faculty possessed almost infallible qualities. In confidence he had more than once admitted to me that certain of his colleagues practising in Harley Street were amazing donkeys; but he would never have allowed anyone else to say so. From the moment a man acquired that diploma which gave him the right over life and death, that man became, in his eyes, an august personage for the world at large. It was a crime, he thought, for a patient not to submit to his decision, and certainly it must be admitted that his success in the treatment of nervous disorders had been most remarkable.

"You were at that lecture by Deboutin, of Paris, the other day!" he exclaimed to me suddenly, while I was seated at his bedside describing the work I had been doing for him in London. "Why didn't you tell me you were going there?"

"I went quite unexpectedly—with a friend."

"With whom?"

"Ambler Jevons."

"Oh, that detective fellow!" laughed the old physician. "Well," he added, "it was all very interesting, wasn't it?"

"Very—especially your own demonstrations. I had no idea that you were in correspondence with Deboutin."

He laughed; then, with a knowing look, said:

"Ah, my dear fellow, nowadays it doesn't do to tell anyone of your own researches. The only way is to spring it upon the profession as a great triumph: just as Koch did his cure for tuberculosis. One must create an impression, if only with a quack remedy. The day of the steady plodder is past; it's all hustle, even in medicine."

"Well, you certainly did make an impression," I said, smiling. "Your experiments were a revelation to the profession. They were talking of them at the hospital only yesterday."

"H'm. They thought me an old fogey, eh? But, you see, I've been keeping pace with the times, Boyd. A man to succeed nowadays must make a boom with something, it matters not what. For years I've been experimenting in secret, and some day I will show them further results of my researches—and they will come upon the profession like a thunderclap, staggering belief."

The old man chuckled to himself as he thought of his scientific triumph, and how one day he would give forth to the world a truth hitherto unsuspected.

We chatted for a long time, mostly upon technicalities which cannot interest the reader, until suddenly he said:

"I'm getting old, Boyd. These constant attacks I have render me unfit to go to town and sit in judgment on that pack of silly women who rush to consult me whenever they have a headache or an erring husband. I think that very soon I ought to retire. I've done sufficient hard work all the years since I was a 'locum' down in Oxfordshire. I'm worn out."

"Oh, no," I said. "You mustn't retire yet. If you did, the profession would lose one of its most brilliant men."

"Enough of compliments," he snapped, turning wearily on his pillow. "I'm sick to death of it all. Better to retire while I have fame, than to outlive it. When I give up you will step into my shoes, Boyd, and it will be a good thing for you."

Such a suggestion was quite unexpected. I had never dreamed that he contemplated handing over his practice to me. Certainly it would be a good thing for me if he did. It would give me a chance such as few men ever had. True, I was well known to his patients and had worked hard in his interests, but that he intended to hand his practice over to me I had never contemplated. Hence I thanked him most heartily. Yes, Sir Bernard had been my benefactor always.

"All the women know you," he went on in his snappish way. "You are the only man to take my place. They would come to you; but not to a new man. All I can hope is that they won't bore you with their domestic troubles—as they have done me," and he smiled.

"Oh," I said. "More than once I, too, have been compelled to listen to the domestic secrets of certain households. It really is astonishing what a woman will tell her doctor, even though he may be young."

The old man laughed again.

"Ah!" he sighed. "You don't know women as I know them, Boyd. You've got your experience to gain. Then you'll hold them in abhorrence—just as I do. They call me a woman-hater," he grunted. "Perhaps I am—for I've had cause to hold the feminine mind and the feminine passion equally in contempt."

"Well," I laughed, "there's not a man in London who is more qualified to speak from personal experience than yourself. So I anticipate a pretty rough time when I've had years of it, as you have."

"And yet you want to marry!" he snapped, looking me straight in the face. "Of course, you love Ethelwynn Mivart. Every man at your age loves. It is a malady that occurs in the 'teens and declines in the thirties. I should have thought that your affection of the heart had been about cured. It is surely time it was."

"It is true that I love Ethelwynn," I declared, rather annoyed, "and I intend to marry her."

"If you do, then you'll spoil all your chances of success. The class of women who are my patients would much rather consult a confirmed bachelor than a man who has a jealous wife hanging to his coat-tails. The doctor's wife must always be a long-suffering person."

I smiled; and then our conversation turned upon his proposed retirement, which was to take place in six months' time.

I returned to London by the last train, and on entering my room found a telegram from Ambler making an appointment to call on the following evening. The message was dated from Eastbourne, and was the first I had received from him for some days.

Next morning I sat in Sir Bernard's consulting-room as usual, receiving patients, and the afternoon I spent on the usual hospital round. About six o'clock Ambler arrived, drank a brandy and soda with a reflective air, and then suggested that we might dine together at the Cavour—a favourite haunt of his.

At table I endeavoured to induce him to explain his movements and what he had discovered; but he was still disinclined to tell me anything. He worked always in secret, and until facts were clear said nothing. It was a peculiarity of his to remain dumb, even to his most intimate friends concerning any inquiries he was making. He was a man of moods, with an active mind and a still tongue—two qualities essential to the successful unravelling of mysteries.

Having finished dinner we lit cigars, and took a cab back to my rooms. On passing along Harley Street it suddenly occurred to me that in the morning I had left a case of instruments in Sir Bernard's consulting-room, and that I might require them for one of my patients if called that night.

Therefore I stopped the cab, dismissed it, and knocked at Sir Bernard's door. Ford, on opening it, surprised me by announcing that his master, whom I had left in bed on the previous night, had returned to town suddenly, but was engaged.

Ambler waited in the hall, while I passed along to the door of the consulting-room with the intention of asking permission to enter, as I always did when Sir Bernard was engaged with a patient.

On approaching the door, however, I was startled by hearing a woman's voice raised in angry, reproachful words, followed immediately by the sound of a scuffle, and then a stifled cry. Without further hesitation I turned the handle.

The door was locked.



CHAPTER XXXI.

CONTAINS THE PLAIN TRUTH.

A sudden idea occurred to me, and I acted instantly upon its impulse. There was a second entrance through the morning room; and I dashed round to the other door, which fortunately yielded.

The sight that met my gaze was absolutely staggering. I stood upon the threshold aghast. Sir Bernard, his dark eyes starting from his ashen face, stood, holding a woman within his grasp, pinning her to the wall, and struggling to cover her mouth with his hands and prevent her cries from being overheard.

The woman was none other than Ethelwynn.

At my unexpected entry he released his hold, shrinking back with a wild, fierce look in his face, such as I had never before seen.

"Ralph!" cried my love, rushing forward and clinging to my neck. "Ralph! For God's sake save me from that fiend! Save me!"

I put my arm around her to protect her, at the same instant shouting to Jevons, who entered, as much astounded as myself. My love had evidently come to town and kept an appointment with the old man. The situation was startling, and required explanation.

"Tell me, Ethelwynn," I said, in a hard, stern voice. "What does all this mean?"

She drew herself up and tried to face me firmly, but was unable. I had burst in upon her unexpectedly, and she seemed to fear how much of the conversation I had overheard.

Noticing her silence, my friend Jevons addressed her, saying:

"Miss Mivart, you are aware of all the circumstances of the tragedy at Kew. Please explain them. Only by frank admission can you clear yourself, remember. To prevaricate further is quite useless."

She glanced at the cringing old fellow standing on the further side of the room—the man who had raised his hand against her. Then, with a sudden resolution, she spoke, saying:

"It is true that I am aware of many facts which have been until to-day kept secret. But now that I know the horrible truth they shall remain mysteries no longer. I have been the victim of a long and dastardly persecution, but I now hope to clear my honour before you, Ralph, and before my Creator." Then she paused, and, taking breath and drawing herself up straight with an air of determined resolution, went on:

"First, let us go back to the days soon after Mary's marriage. I think it was about a year after the wedding when I suddenly noticed a change in her. Her intellect seemed somehow weakened. Hitherto she had possessed a strong, well-defined character; this suddenly developed into a weak, almost childish balance of the brain. Instead of possessing a will of her own, she was no longer the mistress of her actions, but as easily led as an infant. Only to myself and to my mother was this change apparent. To all her friends and acquaintances she was just the same. About that time she consulted this man here—Sir Bernard Eyton, her husband's friend—regarding some other ailment, and he no doubt at once detected that her intellect had given way. Although devoted to her husband, nevertheless the influence of any friend of the moment was irresistible, and for that reason she drifted into the pleasure-seeking set in town."

"But the tragedy?" Jevons exclaimed. "Tell us of that. My own inquiries show that you are aware of it all. Mrs. Courtenay murdered her husband, I know."

"Mary——the assassin!" I gasped.

"Alas! it is too true. Now that my poor sister is dead, concealment is no longer necessary," my love responded, with a deep sigh. "Mary killed her husband. She returned home, entered the house secretly, and, ascending to his room, struck him to the heart."

"But the wound—how was it inflicted?" I demanded eagerly.

"With that pair of long, sharp-pointed scissors which used to be on poor Henry's writing-table. You remember them. They were about eight inches long, with ivory handles and a red morocco case. The wound puzzled you, but to me it seems plain that, after striking the blow, in an endeavour to extricate the weapon she opened it and closed it again, thereby inflicting those internal injuries that were so minutely described at the inquest. Well, on that night I heard a sound, and, fearing that the invalid wanted something, crept from my room. As I gained the door I met Mary upon the threshold. She stood facing me with a weird, fixed look, and in her hand was the weapon with which she had killed her husband. That awful moment is fixed indelibly upon my memory. I shall carry its recollection to the grave. I dashed quickly into the room, and to my horror saw what had occurred. Then my thoughts were for Mary—to conceal her guilt. Whispering to her to obey me I led her downstairs, through the back premises, and so out into the street. A cab was passing, and I put her into it, telling the man to drive to the Hennikers', with whom she had been spending the evening. Then, cleaning the scissors of blood by thrusting them several times into the mould of a garden I was passing, I crossed the road and tossed them over the high wall into the thick undergrowth which flanks Kew Gardens. At that spot I felt certain that they would never be discovered. As quickly as possible I re-entered the house, secured the door by which I had made my exit, and returned again to my room with the awful knowledge of my sister's crime upon my conscience."

"What hour was that?"

"When I retired again to bed my watch showed that it was barely half-past one. At two o'clock Short, awakened by his alarum clock, made the discovery and aroused the house. What followed you know well enough. I need not describe it. You can imagine what I felt, and how guilty was my conscience with the awful knowledge of it all."

"The circumstances were certainly most puzzling," I remarked. "It almost appears as though matters were cleverly arranged in order to baffle detection."

"To a certain extent they undoubtedly were. I knew that the Hennikers would say nothing of poor Mary's erratic return to them. I did all in my power to withdraw suspicion from my sister, at the risk of it falling upon myself. You suspected me, Ralph. And only naturally—after that letter you discovered."

"But Mary's homicidal tendency seems to have been carefully concealed," I said. "I recollect having detected in her a strange vagueness of manner, but it never occurred to me that she was mentally weak. In the days immediately preceding the tragedy I certainly saw but little of her. She was out nearly every evening."

"She was not responsible for her actions for several weeks together sometimes," Sir Bernard interrupted. "I discovered it over a year ago."

"And you profited by your discovery!" my love cried, turning upon him fiercely. "The crime was committed at your instigation!" she declared.

"At my instigation!" he echoed, with a dry laugh. "I suppose you will say next that I hypnotised her—or some bunkum of that sort!"

"I'm no believer in hypnotic theories. They were exploded long ago," she answered. "But what I do believe—nay, what is positively proved from my poor sister's own lips by a statement made before witnesses—is that you were the instigator of the crime. You met her by appointment that night at Kew Bridge. You opened the door of the house for her, and you compelled her to go in and commit the deed. Although demented, she recollected it all in her saner moments. You told her terrible stories of old Mr. Courtenay, for whom you had feigned such friendship, and for weeks you urged her to kill him secretly until, in the frenzy of insanity to which you had brought her, she carried out your design with all that careful ingenuity that is so often characteristic of madness."

"You lie, woman!" the old man snapped. "I had nothing whatever to do with the affair! I was at home at Hove on that night."

"No! no! you were not," interrupted Jevons. "Your memory requires refreshing. Reflect a moment, and you'll find that you arrived at Brighton Station at seven o'clock next morning from Victoria. You spent the night in London; and further, you were recognised by a police inspector walking along the Chiswick Road as early as half-past three. I have not been idle, Sir Bernard, and have spent a good deal of time at Hove of late."

"What do you allege, then?" he cried in fierce anger, a dark, evil expression on his pale, drawn face. "I suppose you'll declare that I'm a murderer next!"

"I allege that, at your instigation, a serious and desperate attempt was made, a short time ago, upon the life of my friend Boyd by ruffians who were well paid by you."

"Another lie!" he blurted forth defiantly.

"What?" I cried. "Is that the truth, Ambler? Was I entrapped at the instigation of this man?"

"Yes. He had reasons for getting rid of you—as you will discern later."

"I tell you it's an untruth!" shouted the old man, in a frenzy of rage.

"Deny it if you will," answered my friend, with a nonchalant air. "It, however, may be interesting to you to know that the man 'Lanky Lane,' one of the desperate gang whom you bribed to call up Boyd on the night in question, is what is known at Scotland Yard as a policeman's 'nose,' or informer; and that he made a plain statement of the whole affair before he fell a victim to your carefully-laid plan by which his lips were sealed."

In an instant I recollected that the costermonger of the London Road was one of the ruffians.

The old man's lips compressed. He saw that he was cornered.

The revelation that to his clever cunning was due the many remarkable features of the mystery held me utterly bewildered. At first it seemed impossible; but as the discussion grew more heated, and the facts poured forth from the mouth of the woman I loved, and from the man who was my best friend, I became convinced that at last the whole of the mysterious affair would be elucidated.

One point, however, still puzzled me, namely, the inexplicable scene I had witnessed on the bank of the Nene.

I referred to it; whereupon Ambler Jevons drew from his breast-pocket two photographs, and, holding them before the eyes of the trembling old man, said:

"You recognise these? For a long time past I've been making inquiries into your keen interest in amateur theatricals. My information led me to Curtis's, the wigmakers; and they furnished me with this picture, showing you made up as as Henry Courtenay. It seems that, under the name of Slade, you furnished them with a portrait of the dead man and ordered the disguise to be copied exactly—a fact to which a dozen witnesses are prepared to swear. This caused me to wonder what game you were playing, and, after watching, I found that on certain nights you wore the disguise—a most complete and excellent one—and with it imposed upon the unfortunate widow of weak intellect. You posed as her husband, and she believed you to be him. So completely was the woman in your thrall that you actually led her to believe that Courtenay was not dead after all! You had a deeper game to play. It was a clever and daring piece of imposture. Representing yourself as her husband who, for financial reasons, had been compelled to disappear and was believed to be dead, you had formed a plan whereby to obtain the widow's fortune as soon as the executors had given her complete mastery of it. You had arranged it all with her. She was to pose as a widow, mourn your loss, and then sell the Devonshire estate and hand you the money, believing you to be her husband and rightly entitled to it. The terrible crime which the unfortunate woman had committed at your instigation had turned her brain, as you anticipated, and she, docile and half-witted, was entirely beneath your influence until——" and he paused.

"Until what?" I asked, utterly astounded at this remarkable explanation of what I had considered to be an absolutely inexplicable phenomenon.

He spoke again, quite calmly:

"Until this man, to his dismay, found that poor Mrs. Courtenay's intellect was regaining its strength. They met beside the river, and, her brain suddenly regaining its balance, she discovered the ingenious fraud he was imposing upon her." Turning to Sir Bernard, he said, "She tore off your disguise and declared that she would go to the police and tell the truth of the whole circumstances—how that you had induced her to go to the house in Kew and kill her husband. You saw that your game was up if she were not silenced; therefore, without further ado, you sent the poor woman to her last account."

"You lie!" the old man cried, his drawn face blanched to the lips. "She fell in—accidentally."

"She did not. You threw her in," declared Ambler Jevons, firmly. "I followed you there. I was witness of the scene between you; and, although too far off to save poor Mrs. Courtenay, I was witness of your crime!"

"You!" he gasped, glaring at my companion in fear, as though he foresaw the horror of his punishment.

"Yes!" responded Jevons, in his dry, matter-of-fact voice, his sleepy eyes brightening for a moment. "Since the day of the tragedy at Kew until this afternoon I have never relinquished the inquiry. The Seven Secrets I took one by one, and gradually penetrated them, at the same time keeping always near you and watching your movements when you least expected it. But enough—I never reveal my methods. Suffice it to say that in this I have succeeded by sheer patience and application. Every word of my allegation I am prepared to substantiate in due course at the Old Bailey." Then, after a second's pause, he looked straight at the culprit standing there, crushed and dumb before him, and declared: "Sir Bernard Eyton, you are a murderer!"

With my love's hand held in mine I stood speechless at those staggering revelations. I saw how Ethelwynn watched the contortions of the old doctor's face with secret satisfaction, for he had ever been her enemy, just as he had been mine. He had uttered those libellous hints regarding her with a view to parting us, so as to give him greater freedom to work his will with poor Mary. Then, when he had feared that through my love I had obtained knowledge of his dastardly offence, he had made an attempt upon my life by means of hired ruffians. The woman who had been in his drawing-room at Hove on the occasion of my visit was Mary, as I afterwards found out, and the attractive young person in the Brighton train had also been a caller at his house in connection with the attempt planned to be made upon me.

"You—you intend to arrest me?" Sir Bernard gasped at last, with some difficulty, his brow like ivory beneath the tight-drawn skin. A change had come over him, and he was standing with his back to a bookcase, swaying unsteadily as though he must fall.

"I certainly do," was Ambler Jevons' prompt response. "You have been the means of committing a double murder for the purposes of gain—because you knew that your friend Courtenay had left a will in your favour in the event of his wife's decease. That will has already been proved; but perhaps it may interest you to know that the latest and therefore the valid will is in my own possession, I having found it during a search of the dead man's effects in company with my friend Boyd. It is dated only a month before his death, and leaves the fortune to the widow, and in the event of her death to her sister Ethelwynn."

"To me!" cried my love, in surprise.

"Yes, Miss Ethelwynn. Everything is left to you unreservedly," he explained. Then, turning again to the clever impostor before him, he added: "You will therefore recognise that all your plotting, so well matured and so carefully planned that your demoniacal ingenuity almost surpasses the comprehension of man, has been in vain. By the neglect of one small detail, namely to sufficiently disguise your identity when dealing with Curtis, I have been enabled, after a long and tedious search, to fix you as the man who on several occasions was made up to present in the night the appearance of the dead Courtenay. The work has taken me many tedious weeks. I visited every wig-maker and half the hairdressers in London unsuccessfully until, by mere chance, the ruffian whom you employed to entrap my friend Boyd gave me a clue to the fact that Curtis made wigs as well as theatrical costumes. The inquiry has been a long and hazardous one," he went on. "But from the very first I was determined to get at the bottom of the mystery, cost me what it might—and I have fortunately succeeded." Then, turning again to the cringing wretch, upon whom the terrible denunciation had fallen as a thunderbolt, he added: "The forgiveness of man, Sir Bernard Eyton, you will never obtain. It has been ever law that the murderer shall die—and you will be no exception."

The effect of those words upon the guilty man was almost electrical. He drew himself up stiffly, his keen, wild eyes starting from his blanched face as he glared at his accuser. His lips moved. No sound, however, came from them. The muscles of his jaws seemed to suddenly become paralysed, for he was unable to close his mouth. He stood for a moment, an awful spectacle, the brand of Cain upon him. A strange gurgling sound escaped him, as though he were trying to articulate, but was unable; then he made wild signs with both his hands, clutched suddenly at the air, and fell forward in a fit.

I went to him, loosened his collar, and applied restoratives, but in ten minutes I saw that he was beyond human aid. What I had at first believed to be a fit was a sudden cessation of the functions of the heart—caused by wild excitement and the knowledge that punishment was upon him.

Within fifteen minutes of that final accusation the old man lay back upon the carpet lifeless, struck dead by natural causes at the moment that his crimes had become revealed.

Thus were the Seven Secrets explained; and thus were the Central Criminal Court and the public spared what would have been one of the most sensational trials of modern times.

The papers on Monday reported "with deepest regret" the sudden death from heart disease of Sir Bernard Eyton, whom they termed "one of the greatest and most skilful physicians of modern times."

* * * * *

Just two years have passed since that memorable evening.

You, my reader, are probably curious to know whether I have succeeded in obtaining the quiet country practice that was my ideal. Well, yes, I have. And what is more, I have obtained in Ethelwynn a wife who is devoted to me and beloved by all the countryside—a wife who is the very perfection of all that is noble and good in woman. The Courtenay estate is ours; but I am not an idle man. Somehow I cannot be.

My practice? Where is it? Well, it is in Leicestershire. I dare not be more explicit, for Ethelwynn has urged me to conceal our identity, in order that we may not be remarked as a couple whose wooing was so strangely tragic and romantic.

Ambler Jevons still carries on his tea-blending business in the City, the most confirmed of bachelors, and the shrewdest of all criminal investigators. Even though we have been so intimate for years, and he often visits me at —— I was nearly, by a slip, writing the name of the Leicestershire village—he has never explained to me his methods, and seldom, if ever, speaks of those wonderful successes by which Scotland Yard is so frequently glad to profit.

Only a few days ago, while we were sitting on the lawn behind my quaint old-fashioned house awaiting dinner, I chanced to remark upon the happiness which his ingenuity and perseverance had brought me; whereupon, turning to me with a slight, reflective smile, he replied:

"Ah, yes! Ralph, old fellow. I gave up that problem in despair fully a dozen times, and it was only because I knew that the future happiness of you both depended upon its satisfactory solution that I began afresh and strove on, determined not to be beaten. I watched carefully, not only Eyton, but Ethelwynn and yourself. I was often near you when you least suspected my presence. But that crafty old scoundrel was possessed of the ingenuity of Satan himself, combined with all the shrewd qualities that go to make a good detective; hence in every movement, every wile, and every action he was careful to cover himself, so that he could establish an alibi on every point. For that reason the work was extremely difficult. He was a veritable artist in crime. Yes," he added, "of the many inquiries I've taken up, the most curious and most complicated of them all was that of The Seven Secrets."

THE END.

PRINTED BY A. C. FOWLER, MOORFIELDS, E.C., AND SHOREDITCH, E.



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.