"As you said just now, Gerald, we must go into the case _ab initio_," he resumed. "I say we, because it may chance that now and then I shall claim your assistance in the matter; and should I have to do so, I know that I shall not claim it in vain." "That you will not," said Gerald warmly. "You may count on my poor services in any and every way." "You must bear in mind," said Miss Bellamy to Murray, "that Gerald has not such an intimate knowledge of the case as either you or I have. He has heard a bare outline of the facts from me; but would it not be as well if you were to tell him the story in detail from your own point of view, and so enable him to judge for himself as to the mode in which he might be best able to assist you?" "You are right, Maria, as you always are," said Murray. "Gerald shall have the story. It will not take long to tell. As a narrative of events, nothing could appear more clear, simple, and straightforward; and yet, underneath it, there still lurks the foul mystery that poisoned my life--that condemned me to a horrible death--that broke my wife's heart--and that made of me the wretched creature I am now!" He rested his head in his hands, and was silent for a little while, calling up the memories of a bitter past. "As you are no doubt already aware," he began, "I was brought up, at my father's request, to be a surgeon. I was in practice for myself, and had been married about two years, when my health, which had always been delicate, broke down. I was ordered to Malvern to try the hydropathic system, and there I stayed for four months, gathering strength daily. At length I found myself well enough to start for home. I had always been fond of walking, and on the present occasion I determined to shun the railways and do the entire distance on foot, going by easy stages so as not to over-fatigue myself. In pursuance of this plan I got as far as Tewkesbury, where I had made up my mind to stay all night. But already I found I was doing myself more harm than good by walking, and it was evident that I should have to finish my journey by rail. I sought and found shelter for the night at the Pelican Hotel. My purse was not very heavy, and I joined the company in the coffee-room. The company in question consisted but of two individuals,--Paul Stilling, a young Englishman, and Max Jacoby, a Dutch or German Jew of about the same age as myself. Stilling was a tall, slim, handsome young-fellow, with closely cropped black hair and a thin silky moustache. He was junior partner in a firm of Birmingham jewellers, and it transpired that he was then on his way, with a parcel of valuable jewellery, to the house of a well-known nobleman, resident no great distance from Tewkesbury. There was about to be a wedding in the family, and he was taking a selection of goods from which sundry bridal presents were to be chosen. He had engaged a bed at the Pelican for that night, and had ordered a fly to be ready at