I laughed at his criticism. What he said was, indeed, quite true. Women often grew confidential towards me, at my age; therefore I could quite realize how they laid bare all their troubles to him. "Oh, by the way!" he said, as though suddenly recollecting. "Have you met your friend Ambler Jevons lately?" "No," I replied. "He's been away for some weeks, I think. Why?" "Because I saw him yesterday in King's Road. He was driving in a fly, and had one eye bandaged up. Met with an accident, I should think." "An accident!" I exclaimed in consternation. "He wrote to me the other day, but did not mention it." "He's been trying his hand at unravelling the mystery of poor Courtenay's death, hasn't he?" the old man asked. "I believe so?" "And failed--eh?" "I don't think his efforts have been crowned with very much success, although he has told me nothing," I said. In response the old man grunted in dissatisfaction. I knew how disgusted he had been at the bungling and utter failure of the police inquiries, for he was always declaring Scotland Yard seemed to be useless, save for the recovery of articles left in cabs. He glanced at his watch, snatched up his silk hat, buttoned his coat, and, wishing me good-bye, went out to catch the Pullman train. Next day about two o'clock I was in one of the wards at Guy's, seeing the last of my patients, when a telegram was handed to me by one of the nurses. I tore it open eagerly, expecting that it was from Ethelwynn, announcing the hour of her arrival at Paddington. But the message upon which my eyes fell was so astounding, so appalling, and so tragic that my heart stood still. The few words upon the flimsy paper increased the mystery to an even more bewildering degree than before! CHAPTER XXIII. THE MYSTERY OF MARY. The astounding message, despatched from Neneford and signed by Parkinson, the butler, ran as follows:-- _"Regret to inform you that Mrs. Courtenay was found drowned in the river this morning. Can you come here? My mistress very anxious to see you."_ Without a moment's delay I sent a reply in the affirmative, and, after searching in the "A.B.C.," found that I had a train at three o'clock from King's Cross. This I took, and after an anxious journey arrived duly at the Manor, all the blinds of which were closely drawn. Parkinson, white-faced and agitated, a thin, nervous figure in a coat too large for him, had been watching my approach up the drive, and held open the door for me. "Ah, Doctor!" the old fellow gasped. "It's terrible--terrible! To think that poor Miss Mary should die like that!" "Tell me all about it," I demanded, quickly. "Come!" and I led the way into the morning room.