surprised.”
“And so am I, Ralph. But what can I do? I’m utterly powerless. She is mistress here, and does exactly as she likes. The old gentleman dotes on her and allows her to have her way in everything. She has ever been wilful, even from a child.”
She did not attempt to shield her sister, and yet she uttered no condemnation of her conduct. I could not, even then, understand the situation. To me one of two things was apparent. Either she feared to displease her sister because of some power the latter held over her, or this neglect of old Mr. Courtenay was pleasing to her.
“I wonder you don’t give Mary a hint that her conduct is being noticed and remarked upon. Of course, don’t say that I’ve spoken of it. Merely put it to her in the manner of a vague suggestion.”
“Very well, if you wish it,” she responded promptly, for she was ever ready to execute my smallest desire.
“And you love me quite as truly and as well as you did a year ago?” I asked, eagerly, stroking the dark tendrils from her white brow.
“Love you?” she echoed. “Yes, Ralph,” she went on, looking up into my face with unwavering gaze. “I may be distrait and pre-occupied sometimes, but, nevertheless, I swear to you, as I did on that summer’s evening long ago when we were boating together at Shepperton, that you are the only man I have ever loved — or shall ever love.”
I returned her caress with a passion that was heartfelt. I was devoted to her, and these tender words of hers confirmed my belief in her truth and purity.
“Need I repeat what I have told you so many times, dearest?” I asked, in a low voice, as her head rested upon my shoulder and she stood in my embrace. “Need I tell you how fondly I love you — how that I am entirely yours? No. You are mine, Ethelwynn — mine.”
“And you will never think ill of me?” she asked, in a faltering tone. “You will never be suspicious of me as you have been to-night? You cannot tell how all this upsets me. Perfect love surely demands perfect confidence. And our love is perfect — is it not?”
“It is,” I cried. “It is. Forgive me, dearest. Forgive me for my churlish conduct to-night. It is my fault — all my fault. I love you, and have every confidence in you.”
“But will your love last always?” she asked, with just a tinge of doubt in her voice.
“Yes, always,” I declared.
“No matter what may happen?” she asked.
“No matter what may happen.”
I kissed her fervently with warm words of passionate devotion upon my lips, and went forth into the rainy winter’s night with my suspicions swept away and with love renewed within me.
I had been foolish in my suspicions and apprehensions, and hated myself for it. Her sweet devotedness to me was sufficient proof of her honesty. I was not wealthy by any means, and I knew that if she chose she could, with her notable beauty, captivate a rich husband without much difficulty. Husbands are only unattainable by the blue-stocking, the flirt and the personally angular.
The rain pelted down in torrents as I walked to Kew Gardens Station, and as it generally happens to the unlucky doctor that calls are made upon him in the most inclement weather, I found, on returning to Harley Place, that Lady Langley, in Hill Street, had sent a message asking me to go round at once. I was therefore compelled to pay the visit, for her ladyship — a snappy old dowager — was a somewhat exacting patient of Sir Bernard’s.
She was a fussy old person who believed herself to be much worse than she really was, and it was, therefore, not until past one o’clock that I smoked my final pipe, drained my peg, and retired to bed, full of recollections of my well-beloved.
Just before turning in my man brought me a telegram from Sir Bernard, dispatched from Brighton, regarding a case to be seen on the following day. He was very erratic about telegrams and sent them to me at all hours, therefore it was no extraordinary circumstance. He always preferred telegraphing to writing letters. I read the message, tossed it with its envelope upon the fire, and then retired with a fervent hope that I should at least be allowed to have a complete night’s rest. Sir Bernard’s patients were, however, of that class who call the doctor at any hour for the slightest attack of indigestion, and summonses at night were consequently very frequent.
I suppose I had been in bed a couple of hours when I was awakened by the electric bell sounding in my man’s room, and a few minutes later he entered, saying: —
“There’s a man who wants to see you immediately, sir. He says he’s from Mr. Courtenay’s, down at Kew.”
“Mr. Courtenay’s!” I echoed, sitting up in bed. “Bring him in here.”
A few moments later the caller was shown in.
“Why, Short!” I exclaimed. “What’s the matter?”
“Matter, doctor,” the man stammered. “It’s awful, sir!”
“What’s awful?”
“My poor master, sir. He’s dead — he’s been murdered!”
CHAPTER V
DISCLOSES A MYSTERY
The man’s amazing announcement held me speechless.
“Murdered!” I cried when I found tongue. “Impossible!”
“Ah! sir, it’s too true. He’s quite dead.”
“But surely he has died from natural causes — eh?”
“No, sir. My poor master has been foully murdered.”
“How do you know that?” I asked breathlessly. “Tell me all the facts.”
I saw by the man’s agitation, his white face, and the hurried manner in which he had evidently dressed to come in search of me, that something tragic had really occurred.
“We know nothing yet, sir,” was his quick response. “I entered his room at two o’clock, as usual, to see if he wanted anything, and saw that he was quite still, apparently asleep. The lamp was turned low, but as I looked over the bed I saw a small dark patch upon the sheet. This I discovered to be blood, and a moment later was horrified to discover a small wound close to the heart, and from it the blood was slowly oozing.”
“Then he’s been stabbed, you think?” I gasped, springing up and beginning to dress myself hastily.
“We think so, sir. It’s awful!”
“Terrible!” I said, utterly dumbfounded by the man’s amazing story. “After you made the discovery, how did you act?”
“I awoke the nurse, who slept in the room adjoining. And then we aroused Miss Mivart. The shock to her was terrible, poor young lady. When she saw the body of the old gentleman she burst into tears, and at once sent me to you. I didn’t find a cab till I’d walked almost to Hammersmith, and then I came straight on here.”
“But is there undoubtedly foul play, Short?”
“No doubt whatever, sir. I’m nothing of a doctor, but I could see the wound plainly, like a small clean cut just under the heart.”
“No weapon about?”
“I didn’t see anything, sir.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No, sir. Miss Mivart said she would wait until you arrived. She wants your opinion.”
“And Mrs. Courtenay. How does she bear the tragedy?”
“The poor lady doesn’t know yet.”
“Doesn’t know? Haven’t you