“Miss Trevert,” said Mr. Jeekes, clearing his throat fussily, “I fear we must look for the motive in the state of poor Mr. Parrish’s nerves. An uncommonly high-strung man he always was, and he smoked those long black strong cigars of his from morning till night. Sir Winterton Maire told him flatly—Mr. Parrish, I recollect, repeated his very words to me after Sir Winterton had examined him—that, if he did not take a complete rest and give up smoking, he would not be answerable for the consequences. Therefore, Miss Trevert....” “Mr. Jeekes,” answered the girl, “I knew Mr. Parrish pretty well. A woman, you know, gets to the heart of a man’s character very often quicker than his daily associates in business. And I know that Mr. Parrish was the last man in the world to have done a thing like that. He was so ... so undaunted. He made nothing of difficulties. He relied wholly on himself. That was the secret of his success. For him to have killed himself like this makes me feel convinced that there was some hidden reason, far stronger, far more terrible, than any question of nerves....” Leaning forward, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, Mary Trevert raised her dark eyes to the little secretary’s face. “Many men have a secret in their lives,” she said in a low voice. “Do you know of anything in Mr. Parrish’s life which an enemy might have made use of to drive him to his death?” Her manner was so intense that Mr. Jeekes quite lost his self-composure. He clutched at his _pince-nez_ and readjusted them upon his nose to cover his embarrassment. The secretary was not used to gazing at beautiful women whose expressive features showed as clearly as this the play of the emotions. “Miss Trevert,” he said presently, “I know of no such secret. But then what do I—what does any one—know of Mr. Parrish’s former life?” “We might make enquiries in South Africa?” ventured the girl. “I doubt if we should learn anything much through that,” said the secretary. “Of course, Mr. Parrish had great responsibilities and responsibility means worry....” A silence fell on them both. From somewhere in the dark shadows above the fire glowing red through the falling twilight a clock chimed once. There was a faint rustling from the neighborhood of the door. Mr. Jeekes started violently. A coal dropped noisily into the fireplace. “There was something else,” said Mary, ignoring the interruption, and paused. She did not look up when she spoke again. “There is often a woman in cases like this,” she began reluctantly. Mr. Jeekes looked extremely uncomfortable. “Miss Trevert,” he said, “I beg you will not press me on that score....” “Why?” asked the girl bluntly. “Because ... because”—Mr. Jeekes stumbled sadly over his words—“because, dear me, there are some things which really I couldn’t possibly discuss ... if you’ll excuse me....”