"I'll go, old chap," Jevons cried, springing to his feet, and draining his glass at a single draught. "She mustn't meet me here. Good-bye till to-morrow. Remember, betray no sign to her that you know the truth. It's certainly a curious affair, as it now stands; but depend upon it that there's more complication and mystery in it than we have yet suspected." CHAPTER XIII. MY LOVE. As soon as Ambler Jevons had slipped out through my little study my love came slowly forward, as though with some unwillingness. She was dressed, as at the inquest, in deep mourning, wearing a smartly-cut tailor-made dress trimmed with astrachan and a neat toque, her pale countenance covered with a thick spotted veil. "Ralph," she exclaimed in a low voice, "forgive me for calling upon you at this hour. I know it's indiscreet, but I am very anxious to see you." I returned her greeting, rather coldly I am afraid, and led her to the big armchair which had only a moment before been vacated by my friend. When she seated herself and faced me I saw how changed she was, even though she did not lift her veil. Her dark eyes seemed haggard and sunken, her cheeks, usually pink with the glow of health, were white, almost ghastly, and her slim, well-gloved hand, resting upon the chair arm, trembled perceptibly. "You have not come to me for two whole days, Ralph," she commenced in a tone of complaint. "Surely you do not intend to desert me in these hours of distress?" "I must apologise," I responded quickly, remembering Jevons' advice. "But the fact is I myself have been very upset over the sad affair, and, in addition, I've had several serious cases during the past few days. Sir Bernard has been unwell, and I've been compelled to look after his practice." "Sir Bernard!" she ejaculated, in a tone which instantly struck me as strange. It was as though she held him in abhorrence. "Do you know, Ralph, I hate to think of you in association with that man." "Why?" I asked, much surprised, while at that same moment the thought flashed through my mind how often Sir Bernard had given me vague warnings regarding her. They were evidently bitter enemies. "I have no intention to give my reasons," she replied, her brows slightly knit. "I merely give it as my opinion that you should no longer remain in association with him." "But surely you are alone in that opinion!" I said. "He bears a high character, and is certainly one of the first physicians in London. His practice is perhaps the most valuable of any medical man at the present moment." "I don't deny that," she said, her gloved fingers twitching nervously. "A man may be a king, and at the same time a knave." I smiled. It was apparent that her intention was to separate me from the man to whom I owed nearly all, if not quite all, my success. And why? Because he knew of her past, and she feared that he might, in a moment of confidence, betray all to me.