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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were evidently bitter enemies.

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

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

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

I smiled. It was apparent that her intention was to separate me from the man to whom I owed nearly all, if not quite all, my success. And why? Because he knew of her past, and she feared that he might, in a moment of confidence, betray all to me.“Vague hints are always irritating,” I remarked. “Cannot you give me some reason for your desire that my friendship with him should end?”

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

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

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

“I can’t be more explicit.”

“Why not?”

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

“I don’t quite follow you,” I said, rather puzzled.

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

“You have only suspicions?”

“Only suspicions.”

“Of what?”

“Of a fact which will some day astound you.”Our eyes met again, and I saw in hers a look of intense earnestness that caused me to wonder. To what could she possibly be referring?

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

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

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

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

“What do you say?”

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

“Nor yours, I suppose?”

“No, neither is he mine.”

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

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

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

“Quarrelled!” she echoed. “We were never friends.”

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

“He was an acquaintance of yours?”

“An acquaintance—yes. But I have always distrusted him.”

“Mary likes him, I believe,” I remarked. “He was poor Courtenay’s most intimate friend for many years.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Until what?” I asked.

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

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

“Lost me! I don’t understand,” I said, feigning not to comprehend her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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