The Seven Secrets Part 32

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 circ.u.mstance 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sistance 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 att.i.tude of supplication, crying in a voice broken by emotion: "Forgive me, Ralph! Have compa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sionate 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 ident.i.ty of the secret a.s.sa.s.sin 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."