I had been foolish in my suspicions and apprehensions, and hated myself for it. Her sweet devotedness to me was sufficient proof of her honesty. I was not wealthy by any means, and I knew that if she chose she could, with her notable beauty, captivate a rich husband without much difficulty. Husbands are only unattainable by the blue-stocking, the flirt and the personally angular. The rain pelted down in torrents as I walked to Kew Gardens Station, and as it generally happens to the unlucky doctor that calls are made upon him in the most inclement weather, I found, on returning to Harley Place, that Lady Langley, in Hill Street, had sent a message asking me to go round at once. I was therefore compelled to pay the visit, for her ladyship--a snappy old dowager--was a somewhat exacting patient of Sir Bernard's. She was a fussy old person who believed herself to be much worse than she really was, and it was, therefore, not until past one o'clock that I smoked my final pipe, drained my peg, and retired to bed, full of recollections of my well-beloved. Just before turning in my man brought me a telegram from Sir Bernard, dispatched from Brighton, regarding a case to be seen on the following day. He was very erratic about telegrams and sent them to me at all hours, therefore it was no extraordinary circumstance. He always preferred telegraphing to writing letters. I read the message, tossed it with its envelope upon the fire, and then retired with a fervent hope that I should at least be allowed to have a complete night's rest. Sir Bernard's patients were, however, of that class who call the doctor at any hour for the slightest attack of indigestion, and summonses at night were consequently very frequent. I suppose I had been in bed a couple of hours when I was awakened by the electric bell sounding in my man's room, and a few minutes later he entered, saying:-- "There's a man who wants to see you immediately, sir. He says he's from Mr. Courtenay's, down at Kew." "Mr. Courtenay's!" I echoed, sitting up in bed. "Bring him in here." A few moments later the caller was shown in. "Why, Short!" I exclaimed. "What's the matter?" "Matter, doctor," the man stammered. "It's awful, sir!" "What's awful?" "My poor master, sir. He's dead--he's been murdered!" CHAPTER V DISCLOSES A MYSTERY. The man's amazing announcement held me speechless. "Murdered!" I cried when I found tongue. "Impossible!" "Ah! sir, it's too true. He's quite dead." "But surely he has died from natural causes--eh?" "No, sir. My poor master has been foully murdered." "How do you know that?" I asked breathlessly. "Tell me all the facts." I saw by the man's agitation, his white face, and the hurried manner in which he had evidently dressed to come in search of me, that something tragic had really occurred.