I had told her nothing concerning the strange occurrence at Sydenham Hill. The name of Parham had been found in the dead man's pocket, therefore, connected as the two crimes seemed to be, I made no explanation. Without doubt, however, she had read the details in the paper which she took daily, and had that morning seen the verdict given at the adjourned inquest. How I longed to show her the photograph and to ask her to tell me the truth. One afternoon, a fortnight ago, she had casually remarked to me that she had seen in the paper the report of a man being found in Charlton Wood, whereupon I merely replied that I, too, had heard the details, and that I supposed the victim was some unfortunate tramp who had been killed by an enemy. "He may have been shot accidentally by one of the keepers, who fears to tell the truth," she suggested. But I remained silent. I remembered Eric's terrible denunciation. I passed that afternoon with her in the cheaply-furnished little sitting-room, smoking and chatting. After she had removed the cloth she threw aside her apron, and sat in the low wicker armchair with a cigarette. Only when I was present dared she smoke, and I saw how thoroughly she enjoyed it. "You, Wilfrid, seem like a visitor from the other world--the world which nowadays exists only in my dreams," she said, throwing her head lazily back and blowing a cloud of smoke from her pursed-up lips. "As I sit here alone hour after hour, I wonder how it is that I have lived the life I have. Our foibles and follies and false appearances are, after all, wretchedly insincere, and surely the enemies of a smart woman are the bitterest in the world. Cynthia taught me to believe that our set was the world, but I now know different, for I see that there is happiness, yes, far greater happiness in the poor struggling homes about me here than in our own world of pleasure. Happiness?" she repeated to herself, looking blankly across the room and sighing, "I wonder if I shall ever know what real happiness means?" "I hope so," I exclaimed quickly. "Surely there is no reason why you should be unhappy. You are young, wealthy, courted, flattered, and one of the best-looking women in London. You are well aware of that, Tibbie." "Aware of it!" she exclaimed hoarsely, in a low, broken voice. "Everyone tells me so. Yes," she added bitterly, "I have everything except the one thing debarred me--happiness." "And why not that?" "Can one be happy if one does not possess peace of mind? That, alas! I do not possess." "Because you hold a secret," I remarked slowly, looking into her eyes as they suddenly met mine. "Will you never reveal it to me, Tibbie?" I asked. "I could surely assist you." But she shook her head, replying,--