I looked at his face, and saw upon it an expression of profound mysteriousness. His dark, well-marked countenance was a complex one always, but at that moment I was utterly unable to discern whether he spoke the truth, or whether he only wished to mislead my suspicions into a different channel. That he was the acme of shrewdness, that his powers of deduction were extraordinary, and that his patience in unravelling a secret was almost beyond comprehension I knew well. Even those great trackers of criminals, Shaw and Maddox, of New Scotland Yard, held him in respect, and admired his acute intelligence and marvellous power of perception. Yet his attempt to evade a question which so closely concerned my own peace of mind and future happiness tried my patience. If he had really discovered some fresh facts I considered it but right that I should be acquainted with them. "Has your opinion changed as to the identity of the person who committed the crime?" I asked him, rather abruptly. "Not in the least," he responded, slowly lighting his foul pipe. "How can it, in the face of the letter we burnt?" "Then you think that jealousy was the cause of the tragedy? That she----" "No, not jealousy," he interrupted, speaking quite calmly. "The facts I have discovered go to show that the motive was not jealousy." "Hatred, then?" "No, not hatred." "Then what?" "That's just where I fail to form a theory," he answered, after a brief silence, during which he watched the blue smoke curl upward to the sombre ceiling of my room. "In a few days I hope to discover the motive." "You will let me assist you?" I urged, eagerly. "I am at your disposal at any hour." "No," he answered, decisively. "You are prejudiced, Ralph. You unfortunately still love that woman." A sigh escaped me. What he said was, alas! too true. I had adored her through those happy months prior to the tragedy. She had come into my lonely bachelor life as the one ray of sunlight that gave me hope and happiness, and I had lived for her alone. Because of her I had striven to rise in the profession, and had laboured hard so that in a little while I might be in a position to marry and buy that quiet country practice that was my ideal existence. And even now, with my idol broken by the knowledge of her previous engagement to the man now dead, I confess that I nevertheless still entertained a strong affection for her. The memory of a past love is often more sweet than the love itself--and to men it is so very often fatal. I had risen to pour out some whiskey for my companion when, of a sudden, my man opened the door and announced: "There's a lady to see you, sir." "A lady?" we both exclaimed, with one voice. "Yes, sir," and he handed me a card. I glanced at it. My visitor was the very last person I desired to meet at that moment, for she was none other than Ethelwynn herself.