"Well, if you insist upon it," I said, "here it is: I really don't know whether he is guilty or not; I have been convinced that he was till very recently, but Merritt (the detective, you know) has always been sceptical, and maintains that a woman committed the murder." "A woman," she repeated, turning her eyes full on me. "But what woman?" "Merritt refuses to tell me whom he suspects, but he promises to produce the fair criminal before next Tuesday." We walked on for about a block, when, struck by her silence, I looked at her, and saw that she had grown alarmingly pale. I cursed myself for my loquacity, but what could I have done? It is almost impossible to avoid answering direct questions without being absolutely rude, and as I knew the detective did not suspect her I really could not see why she should be so agitated. "I guess I'm not very strong," she said; "I'm tired already, and think I'll go home." I wondered if my society had been disagreeable or, at any rate, inopportune, and had caused her to cut short her walk. As we repassed my house, I caught Mrs. Atkins peering apprehensively at it. I followed the direction of her eyes, but could see nothing unusual. When I got back to my office, I found that Atkins had called during my absence; I was very sorry to have missed him, as he no doubt came to report what Dr. Hartley had said about his wife. That night I was called out to see a patient, and returned home during the small hours of the morning. I was still some distance from my house when I distinctly saw the back door of the Rosemere open, and a muffled figure steal out. I was too far away to be able to distinguish any details. I could not even be sure whether the figure was that of a man or a woman. I hastened my steps as I saw it cross the street, but before I had come within reasonable distance of it, it had disappeared round the corner. The next morning I was aroused at a very early hour by a vigorous ringing at my bell. Hurrying to the door, I was astonished to find Atkins there. He was white and trembling. I pulled him into the room and made him sit down. "What is the matter?" I asked, as I went to the sideboard and poured out a stiff glass of brandy, which I handed him. "Drink that, and you'll feel better," I said. He gulped it down at one swallow. "My wife has disappeared." "Disappeared!" I repeated. He nodded. "But when?--how?" "I don't know. At dinner yesterday she acted queerly. The tears kept coming to her eyes without any reason----" "Before you go any further," I interrupted him, "tell me if this was after the doctor had seen her?" "Yes, and he practically confirmed all you said. He laid great stress on her being spared all agitation, and advised a course of baths at Nauheim." "Her tears, then, were probably caused by worrying over her condition," I said.