"I merely ask whether this is not the truth," I responded calmly. I had noticed that the furniture in the room was undusted, and therefore knew that they had returned to town unexpectedly. "Shall we advance a step further? I think, if I am not mistaken, that there was a strong reason for your return to town, and also for keeping your presence in London a secret. That is the reason that you communicated with your friend." "With whom?" "With Mrs Chetwode." The light died from her face. She swayed slightly, and I saw that she gripped the edge of the little glass-topped table to steady herself. Then her features relaxed into a sickly smile, and she managed to stammer-- "You are awfully clever, Doctor, to be aware of all these things. Is it clairvoyance--thought-reading, or what?" "Those who have secrets should be careful not to betray them," I responded ambiguously. "Then if I have betrayed myself, perhaps you will tell me something more of equal interest." "No," I answered. "I have no desire to make any experiments. In this matter your cousin's life is at stake. It will be, at least, humane of you if you place me in possession of all the facts you know regarding the dastardly attempt upon her." "I tell you that I know nothing." "Nothing beyond what?" I said very gravely. Again she was silent. I watched the inanimate body of the woman I loved, but saw no change. In what manner that state of coma had been produced I knew not, and I was in deadly fear that the last breath would leave the body before the arrival of Hoefer, the great German doctor whose lectures at Guy's had first aroused within me a desire to become a medico-legist. There was, I knew, but one man in all the world who could diagnose those symptoms, and it was Hoefer. I only prayed that he might not be out of town. "Well," I went on, "it seems that you hesitate to tell me the truth, because you fear that I might divulge your secret. Is that so?" "I believed that I might trust you to attend my cousin, and preserve silence regarding her illness and her presence in London," was the haughty reply. "But it seems that you are endeavouring to ascertain facts which are purely family affairs." "The doctor is always the confidant of the family," I answered. "But the other--the doctor who is coming?" "He is an old friend and will promise to keep your secret," I said. "Come, tell me." She stood hesitating, erect, statuesque, her eyes fixed immovably upon me. "I know you are in trouble," I added in a tone of sympathy. "I am ready to assist you, if you are open and straight forward with me. I have already given you my pledge of secrecy. Now tell me what has occurred." She wavered in her resolution to tell me nothing. My sympathetic tones decided her, and she said in a low, hoarse voice-- "It is a mystery." "In what way?"