“I see that I can do nothing by ordinary methods. I realize that it is useless to make a public outcry. There is only my own conviction that Margaret came to a violent end, and I cannot expect anyone to pay heed to that.” “After all, it’s just possible that she really died of heart disease.” Arthur gave Susie a long look. He seemed to consider her words deliberately. “Perhaps there are means to decide that conclusively,” he replied at length, thoughtfully, as though he were talking to himself. “What are they?” Arthur did not answer. When they came to the door of the inn, he stopped. “Will you go in? I wish to take a walk by myself,” he said. Susie looked at him anxiously. “You’re not going to do anything rash?” “I will do nothing till I have made quite sure that Margaret was foully murdered.” He turned on his heel and walked quickly away. It was late now, and they found a frugal meal waiting for them in the little sitting-room. It seemed no use to delay it till Arthur came back, and silently, sorrowfully, they ate. Afterwards, the doctor smoked cigarettes, while Susie sat at the open window and looked at the stars. She thought of Margaret, of her beauty and her charming frankness, of her fall and of her miserable end; and she began to cry quietly. She knew enough of the facts now to be aware that the wretched girl was not to blame for anything that had happened. A cruel fate had fallen upon her, and she had been as powerless as in the old tales Phaedra, the daughter of Minos, or Myrrha of the beautiful hair. The hours passed, and still Arthur did not return. Susie thought now only of him, and she was frightfully anxious. But at last he came in. The night was far advanced. He put down his hat and sat down. For a long while he looked silently at Dr. Porhoët. “What is it, my friend?” asked the good doctor at length. “Do you remember that you told us once of an experiment you made in Alexandria?” he said, after some hesitation. He spoke in a curious voice. “You told us that you took a boy, and when he looked in a magic mirror, he saw things which he could not possibly have known.” “I remember very well,” said the doctor. “I was much inclined to laugh at you at the time. I was convinced that the boy was a knave who deceived you.” “Yes?” “Of late I’ve thought of that story often. Some hidden recess of my memory has been opened, and I seem to remember strange things. Was I the boy who looked in the ink?” “Yes,” said the doctor quietly. Arthur did not say anything. A profound silence fell upon them, while Susie and the doctor watched him intently. They wondered what was in his mind.