"No. With poor Mary lying dead I can say nothing. Later, when I have found the clue for which I am searching, I will tell you what I know. Till then, no word shall pass my lips." I knew too well that when my love made up her mind it was useless to try and turn her from her purpose. She was no shallow, empty-headed girl, whose opinion could be turned by any breath of the social wind or any invention of the faddists; her mind was strong and well-balanced, so that she always had the courage of her own convictions. Her sister, on the contrary, had been one of those giddy women who follow every frill and furbelow of Fashion, and who take up all the latest crazes with a seriousness worthy of better objects. In temperament, in disposition, in character, and in strength of mind they had been the exact opposite of each other; the one sister flighty and thoughtless, the other patient and forbearing, with an utter disregard for the hollow artificialities of Society. "But in this matter we may be of mutual assistance to each other," I urged, in an effort to persuade her. "As far as I can discern, the mystery contains no fewer than seven complete and distinct secrets. To obtain the truth regarding one would probably furnish the key to the whole." "Then you think that poor Mary's untimely death is closely connected with the tragedy at Kew?" she asked. "Most certainly. But I do not share your opinion of suicide." "What? You suspect foul play?" she cried. I nodded in the affirmative. "You believe that poor Mary was actually murdered?" she exclaimed, anxiously. "Have you found marks of violence, then?" "No, I have found nothing. My opinion is formed upon a surmise." "What surmise?" I hesitated whether to tell her all the facts that I had discovered, for I was disappointed and annoyed that she should still preserve a dogged silence, now that a reconciliation had been brought about. "Well," I answered, after a pause, "my suspicion of foul play is based upon logical conclusions. I have myself been witness of one most astonishing fact--namely, that she was in the habit of meeting a certain man clandestinely at night, and that their favourite walk was along the river bank." "What!" she cried, starting up in alarm, all the colour fading from her face. "You have actually seen them together?" "I have not only seen them, but I have overheard their conversation," I answered, surprised at the effect my words had produced upon her. "Then you already know the truth!" she cried, in a wild voice that was almost a shriek. "Forgive me--forgive me, Ralph!" And throwing herself suddenly upon her knees she looked up into my face imploringly, her white hands clasped in an attitude of supplication, crying in a voice broken by emotion: "Forgive me, Ralph! Have compassion upon me!" and she burst into a flood of tears which no caress or tender effort of mine could stem.