"Vague hints are always irritating," I remarked. "Cannot you give me some reason for your desire that my friendship with him should end?" "No. If I did, you would accuse me of selfish motives," she said, fixing her dark eyes upon me. Could a woman with a Madonna-like countenance be actually guilty of murder? It seemed incredible. And yet her manner was that of a woman haunted by the terrible secret of her crime. At that moment she was seeking, by ingenious means, to conceal the truth regarding the past. She feared that my intimate friendship with the great physician might result in her unmasking. "I can't see that selfish motives enter into this affair at all," I remarked. "Whatever you tell me, Ethelwynn, is, I know, for my own benefit. Therefore you should at least be explicit." "I can't be more explicit." "Why not?" "Because I have no right to utter a libel without being absolutely certain of the facts." "I don't quite follow you," I said, rather puzzled. "I mean that at present the information I have is vague," she replied. "But if it is the truth, as I expect to establish it, then you must dissociate yourself from him, Ralph." "You have only suspicions?" "Only suspicions." "Of what?" "Of a fact which will some day astound you." Our eyes met again, and I saw in hers a look of intense earnestness that caused me to wonder. To what could she possibly be referring? "You certainly arouse my curiosity," I said, affecting to laugh. "Do you really think Sir Bernard such a very dreadful person, then?" "Ah! You do not take my words seriously," she remarked. "I am warning you, Ralph, for your own benefit. It is a pity you do not heed me." "I do heed you," I declared. "Only your statement is so strange that it appears almost incredible." "Incredible it may seem; but one day ere long you will be convinced that what I say to-night is the truth." "What do you say?" "I say that Sir Bernard Eyton, the man in whom you place every confidence, and whose example as a great man in his profession you are so studiously following, is not your friend." "Nor yours, I suppose?" "No, neither is he mine." This admission was at least the truth. I had known it long ago. But what had been the cause of difference between them was hidden in deepest mystery. Sir Bernard, as old Mr. Courtenay's most intimate friend, knew, in all probability, of his engagement to her, and of its rupture in favour of her sister Mary. It might even be that Sir Bernard had had a hand in the breaking of the engagement. If so, that would well account for her violent hostility towards him. Such thoughts, with others, flashed through my mind as I sat there facing her. She was leaning back, her hands fallen idly upon her lap, peering straight at me through that spotted veil which, half-concealing her wondrous beauty, imparted to her an additional air of mystery. "You have quarrelled with Sir Bernard, I presume?" I hazarded. "Quarrelled!" she echoed. "We were never friends."