I loved her. Yes, the more I reflected as I sat there gazing aimlessly across the square, regardless of the fleeting time, the more I became convinced that she was all the world to me. I recollected her daintiness and her grace, the sweetness of her smile and the music of her voice, telling myself that she alone was my idol, that my love for Mary had after all been a mere boyish fancy, and that this affection was a true, honest, deep-rooted one, the outcome of a great and boundless love. Was there, however, not a great and terrible suspicion upon her? By a mere chance, that chance which Fate sends so often to thwart the murderer's plans or give him up to justice, I had learnt that she--or some one answering exactly to her description--had actually purchased some poisonous compound. I had believed her to have been a victim on that fatal night, but now it seemed that, on the other hand, she was herself given to the study of poisons; a strange subject, indeed, for a woman to take up. Then calmly I asked myself if it were possible to cast all memory of her aside, and after reflection discovered that such a course was utterly unfeasible. To entertain no further thought of her was entirely out of all question, for I loved her with a fierce and intense affection, and thought of nought else but her strange connexion with this mystery which, if made public, would send a thrill through London. There were some very ugly facts hidden somewhere, yet try how I would I could form no distinct straightforward theory. Eva was naive and sincere, frank and open, undesigning and entirely inartificial, nevertheless beneath her candour she seemed to be concealing some dread secret. The latter I was determined to discover, and while night drew on and shadowy figures crossed and recrossed the square, I still sat plunged in thought, pondering deeply to find some means whereby to approach her. I love her--a woman upon whom the gravest suspicion rested of having purchased a deadly drug for some nefarious purpose. Truly in the fitful fever of life the decree of Fate is oft-times strange. Men have loved murderesses, and women have, before now, given their hearts, nay, even their lives, to shield cowards and assassins. Suddenly a movement behind me brought me back to a sense of my surroundings, and I saw that Dick had returned. "Why, you're back very early," I said. "Have you been down to the Crystal Palace?" "Yes, of course," he answered gaily. "What have you been doing, you lazy beggar? It's past half-past eleven." "Nothing," I answered, surprised that it was so late. "I tried to write, but it's too beastly hot to work." "Quite fresh down at the Palace," he answered. "Big crowd on the Terrace, and the fireworks not at all bad." "Lil all right?"