I smiled. I knew quite well that he was no friend of hers. Once or twice of late he had said in that peevish snappy voice of his: "I wonder what that woman, Mrs. Courtenay's sister, is doing? I hear nothing of her." I did not enlighten him, for I had no desire to hear her maligned. I knew the truth myself sufficiently well. But turning to her I looked straight into her dark luminous eyes, those eyes that held me always as beneath their spell, saying: "He has proved himself my best friend, up to the present. I have no reason to doubt him." "But you will have. I warn you." "In what manner, then, is he my enemy?" She hesitated, as though half-fearing to respond to my question. Presently she said: "He is my enemy--and therefore yours." "Why is he your enemy?" I asked, eager to clear up a point which had so long puzzled me. "I cannot tell," she responded. "One sometimes gives offence and makes enemies without being aware of it." The evasion was a clever one. Another illustration of tactful ingenuity. By dint of careful cross-examination I endeavoured to worm from her the secret of my chief's antagonism, but she was dumb to every inquiry, fencing with me in a manner that would have done credit to a police-court solicitor. Though sweet, innocent, and intensely charming, yet there was a reverse side of her character, strong, firm-minded, almost stern in its austerity. I must here say that our love, once so passionate and displayed by fond kisses and hand-pressing, in the usual manner of lovers, had gradually slackened. A kiss on arrival and another on departure was all the demonstration of affection that now passed between us. I doubted her; and though I strove hard to conceal my true feelings, I fear that my coldness was apparent, not only to her but to the Hennikers also. She had complained of it when she called at my rooms, and certainly she had full reason for doing so. I am not one of those who can feign love. Some men can; I cannot. Thus it will be seen that although a certain coolness had arisen between us, in a manner that seemed almost mutual, we were nevertheless the best of friends. Once or twice she dined with me at a restaurant, and went to a play afterwards, on such occasions remarking that it seemed like "old times," in the early days of our blissful love. And sometimes she would recall those sweet halcyon hours, until I felt a pang of regret that my trust in her had been shaken by that letter found among the dead man's effects and that tiny piece of chenille. But I steeled my heart, because I felt assured that the truth must out some day. Mine was a strange position for any man. I loved this woman, remember; loved her with all my heart and with all my soul. Yet that letter penned by her had shown me that she had once angled for larger spoils, and was not the sweet unsophisticated woman I had always supposed her to be. It showed me, too, that in her heart had rankled a fierce, undying hatred.