Whenever I spoke to him of the tragedy, he would sigh, his face would assume a puzzled expression, and he would declare that the affair utterly passed his comprehension. Once or twice he referred to Ethelwynn, but it struck me that he did not give tongue to what passed within his mind for fear of offending me. His methods were based on patience, therefore I often wondered whether he was still secretly at work upon the case, and if so, whether he had gained any additional facts. Yet he told me nothing. It was a mystery, he said--that was all. Of Ethelwynn I saw but little, making my constant occupation with Sir Bernard's patients my excuse. She had taken up her abode with Mrs. Henniker--the cousin at whose house Mary had stayed on the night of the tragedy. The furniture at Richmond Road had been removed and the house advertised for sale, young Mrs. Courtenay having moved to her aunt's house in the country, a few miles from Bath. On several occasions I had dined at Redcliffe Square, finding both Mrs. Henniker and her husband extremely agreeable. Henniker was partner in a big brewing concern at Clapham, and a very good fellow; while his wife was a middle-aged, fair-haired woman, of the type who shop of afternoons in High Street, Kensington. Ethelwynn had always been a particular favourite with both, hence she was a welcome guest at Redcliffe Square. Old Mr. Courtenay had had business relations with Henniker a couple of years before, and a slight difference had led to an open quarrel. For that reason they had not of late visited at Kew. On the occasions I had spent the evening with Ethelwynn at their house I had watched her narrowly, yet neither by look nor by action did she betray any sign of a guilty secret. Her manner had during those weeks changed entirely; for she seemed perfectly calm and self-possessed, and although she alluded but seldom to our love, she treated me with that same sweet tenderness as before the fatal night of her brother-in-law's assassination. I must admit that her attitude, although it inspired me with a certain amount of confidence, nevertheless caused me to ponder deeply. I knew enough of human nature to be aware that it is woman's metier to keep up appearances. Was she keeping up an appearance of innocence, although her heart was blackened by a crime? One evening, when we chanced to be left alone in the little smoking-room after dinner, she suddenly turned to me, saying: "I've often thought how strange you must have thought my visit to your rooms that night, Ralph. It was unpardonable, I know--only I wanted to warn you of that man." "Of Sir Bernard?" I observed, laughing. "Yes. But it appears that you have not heeded me," she sighed. "I fear, Ralph, that you will regret some day." "Why should I regret? Your fears are surely baseless." "No," she answered decisively. "They are not baseless. I have reasons--strong ones--for urging you to break your connexion with him. He is no friend to you."