"The verdict on your father's death was absolutely unanimous," Wrayson said. "He was seen to stagger on the platform just as the train came in, and he seemed to make every effort to save himself. He was killed quite instantaneously. I do not think that any one had a suspicion that it was not entirely accidental." Duncan nodded. "And the other affair?" "You mean the death of Sydney Barnes? No one has ever doubted that he committed suicide. Everything seemed to point to it. There is only one man who knew about Morris Barnes and probably guesses the rest. His name was Heneage, and he was your father's friend. He did not speak when he was alive, so he is not likely to now. There is the young woman, of course, Mrs. Morris Barnes. She has married again and gone to Canada. Louise looked after her." Duncan took up his riding-whip from the table. "Now tell me," he said, "what it is that you have to say to me." "Do you read the papers?" Wrayson asked abruptly. "Only so far as they treat of matters connected with this country," Duncan answered. "You have not read, then, of the Mexonian divorce?" The man's eyes were lit with fire. The handle of the riding-whip snapped in his hands. "They have never granted it!" he cried. "Not in its first form," Wrayson answered hastily. "The whole suit fell to the ground for want of evidence." "It is abandoned, then?" Duncan demanded. "On the contrary, the courts have granted the decree," Wrayson answered, "but on political grounds only. Every material charge against the Queen was withdrawn, and the divorce became a matter of arrangement." "She is free from that brute, then," Duncan said quietly. "I am glad." Wrayson glanced down towards the valley. A couple of wagons and several Kaffir boys with led horses were just entering the valley. "Yes!" he said, "she is free!" Something in his intonation, some change in his face, gripped hold of Duncan. He caught his visitor by the shoulder roughly. "What the devil do you mean?" he demanded, "What difference does it make? She would never dare--to--" "You can never tell," Wrayson said, with a little sigh, "what a woman will dare to do. Tell me the truth, Duncan. You care for her still?" "God knows it!" he answered fiercely. "There has never been another woman. There never could be." "Jump on your pony, then, and ride down and meet them. Gently, man! Don't break your neck." ... Later on they sat out upon the veranda. The swift darkness was falling already upon the land, the colour was fading fast from the gorgeous fragments of piled-up clouds in the western sky. Almost as they watched, the outline faded away from the distant mountains, the rolling woods lost their shape. "It's a wonderful country, yours, Duncan," Wrayson said. "It is God's own country," Duncan answered quietly. "What we shall make of it, He only knows! It is the country of eternal mysteries." He pointed northwards.