There was one other event in the memorable past on which he preserved the same compassionate silence. Little Mrs. Ferrari never knew that her husband had been—not, as she supposed, the Countess’s victim—but the Countess’s accomplice. She still believed that the late Lord Montbarry had sent her the thousand-pound note, and still recoiled from making use of a present which she persisted in declaring had “the stain of her husband’s blood on it.” Agnes, with the widow’s entire approval, took the money to the Children’s Hospital; and spent it in adding to the number of the beds. In the spring of the new year, the marriage took place. At the special request of Agnes, the members of the family were the only persons present at the ceremony. There was no wedding breakfast—and the honeymoon was spent in the retirement of a cottage on the banks of the Thames. During the last few days of the residence of the newly married couple by the riverside, Lady Montbarry’s children were invited to enjoy a day’s play in the garden. The eldest girl overheard (and reported to her mother) a little conjugal dialogue which touched on the topic of The Haunted Hotel. “Henry, I want you to give me a kiss.” “There it is, my dear.” “Now I am your wife, may I speak to you about something?” “What is it?” “Something that happened the day before we left Venice. You saw the Countess, during the last hours of her life. Won’t you tell me whether she made any confession to you?” “No conscious confession, Agnes—and therefore no confession that I need distress you by repeating.” “Did she say nothing about what she saw or heard, on that dreadful night in my room?” “Nothing. We only know that her mind never recovered the terror of it.” Agnes was not quite satisfied. The subject troubled her. Even her own brief intercourse with her miserable rival of other days suggested questions that perplexed her. She remembered the Countess’s prediction. “You have to bring me to the day of discovery, and to the punishment that is my doom.” Had the prediction simply faded, like other mortal prophecies?—or had it been fulfilled on the terrible night when she had seen the apparition, and when she had innocently tempted the Countess to watch her in her room? Let it, however, be recorded, among the other virtues of Mrs. Henry Westwick, that she never again attempted to persuade her husband into betraying his secrets. Other men’s wives, hearing of this extraordinary conduct (and being trained in the modern school of morals and manners), naturally regarded her with compassionate contempt. They spoke of Agnes, from that time forth, as “rather an old-fashioned person.” Is that all? That is all. Is there no explanation of the mystery of The Haunted Hotel? Ask yourself if there is any explanation of the mystery of your own life and death.—Farewell.