Jim is not a bad amateur detective, and he didn't abandon his efforts to get behind the portrait mystery. But we had decided that, for Murray's sake, "discretion was the better part of valour" for us; and the care with which he had to work added a lot to his difficulties. Besides, there were a good many other things to think of just then: things concerning ourselves, also things concerning the Murrays. And those things which concerned them were a thousand times more important than any faked heirlooms.

Sir Beverley Drake gave some faint hope that Ralston Murray's life might be saved. There was a serum upon which he had been experimenting for years, and in which he had begun enthusiastically to believe, for obscure tropical maladies resembling Murray's.

We had asked him to motor on to the Abbey and luncheon, after his visit to Ralston Old Manor, hardly daring to think that he would accept. But he did accept; and I saw by his face the moment we met that the news he had to give was, at the worst, not bad. I was so happy when I heard what he had to say that I could have danced for joy.

"Mind, I don't promise anything," Sir Beverley reminded me. "But there is hope. Murray must have had a marvellous constitution to have gone through what he has, in the war and since. If he hadn't had that, he'd be dead now. And then, of course, this amazing romance of his—this deathbed marriage—as you might call it—has given him a wonderful fillip. Happiness is an elixir of life, even in the most desperate cases at times, so I've got something hopeful to work on. I don't feel sure even of a partial success for my treatment, and I told them that. It's an experiment. If it fails, Murray may burn out rather than flicker out, and go a few weeks sooner than he need if let alone. If it succeeds—why, there's no limit to the success it might have!"

"You mean, he might be entirely cured—a well man again?" I almost gasped.

"Yes, it's just on the cards," Sir Beverley answered.

"Of course, Murray decided at once to run the risk?" asked Jim.

"Of course," replied the specialist. But he looked thoughtful.

"And Rosemary?" I added. "Couldn't she have kissed your feet for the blessed message of hope you gave her?"

Sir Beverley smiled at the picture. "I saw no sign of such a desire on the part of the beautiful lady," he said.

"She's rather shy of expressing her emotions," I explained Rosemary to the great man. "But she has the deepest feelings!"

"So I should judge," he answered rather drily. "Perhaps, though, she has no great faith in the experiment, and would prefer for her husband's peace to let 'well enough alone,' as people vaguely say."

Again I felt the disagreeable shock I'd experienced when Rosemary had first spoken to me of Murray's death as certain. "It must be that," I said, quickly. "She adores him."

"She gave me proof of that, in case I'd doubted," Sir Beverley answered. "I told them that before beginning the hypodermic injections of serum I should like to change and purify Murray's blood by transfusion, and so give him an extra chance. Mrs. Murray instantly offered her blood, and didn't flinch when I told her a pint would be necessary. Her husband refused to let her make such a sacrifice for him, and was quite indignant that I didn't protest against it. But she begged, coaxed, insisted. It was really a moving scene, and—er—went far to remove my first impression."

"What was your first impression?" I catechized. "Oh, don't think I ask from curiosity! I'm Rosemary's friend. Jim and I are both as much interested in Ralston Murray's case as if he were our brother. In a way, we're responsible for the marriage—at least, we advised it. I know Rosemary well, I believe, though she has a hard nature to understand. And if you had an unfavourable impression of her, perhaps out of my knowledge I might explain it away."

"Well, to tell the truth," said Sir Beverley bluntly, "when I gave the verdict which I'd thought would enchant her, Mrs. Murray seemed—not happy, but terrified. I expected for a second or two that she would faint. I must confess, I felt—chilled."

"What—did she say?" I faltered.

"She said nothing at all. She looked—frozen."

"I hope poor Murray didn't get the same impression you got?" said Jim.

"I don't think he did. She was sitting on the edge of his sofa, holding his hand, after I'd made my examination of the patient, and had called her back into the room. And when I told them what I hoped, I saw Mrs. Murray squeeze his fingers suddenly very tight with her small ones. To me—combined with the staring look in her eyes—the movement seemed convulsive, such as you might see in a prisoner, pronounced guilty by the foreman of the jury. But naturally no thought of that kind jumped into Murray's head! When she pressed his hand, he lifted hers to his lips and kissed it. All the same, my impression remained—like a lump of ice I'd swallowed by mistake—until Mrs. Murray so eagerly offered her blood for her husband. Then I had to acknowledge that she must be truly in love with him—for some women, even affectionate wives, wouldn't have the physical or mental courage for such an ordeal."

"I hope she won't weaken when the time comes!" exclaimed Jim.

"I don't somehow think she will weaken," Sir Beverley replied, a puzzled frown drawing his thick eyebrows together.

I was puzzled, too, but I praised Rosemary, and gave no hint of my own miserable, reawakened suspicions. What I wanted to do was to see her as soon as possible, and judge for myself.