too true. I had adored her
through those happy months prior to the tragedy. She had come into my
lonely bachelor life as the one ray of sunlight that gave me hope and
happiness, and I had lived for her alone. Because of her I had striven
to rise in the profession, and had laboured hard so that in a little
while I might be in a position to marry and buy that quiet country
practice that was my ideal existence. And even now, with my idol
broken by the knowledge of her previous engagement to the man now
dead, I confess that I nevertheless still entertained a strong
affection for her. The memory of a past love is often more sweet than
the love itself--and to men it is so very often fatal.

I had risen to pour out some whiskey for my companion when, of a
sudden, my man opened the door and announced:

"There's a lady to see you, sir."

"A lady?" we both exclaimed, with one voice.

"Yes, sir," and he handed me a card.

I glanced at it. My visitor was the very last person I desired to meet
at that moment, for she was none other than Ethelwynn herself.

"I'll go, old chap," Jevons cried, springing to his feet, and draining
his glass at a single draught. "She mustn't meet me here. Good-bye
till to-morrow. Remember, betray no sign to her that you know the
truth. It's certainly a curious affair, as it now stands; but depend
upon it that there's more complication and mystery in it than we have
yet suspected."

CHAPTER XIII.

MY LOVE.

As soon as Ambler Jevons had slipped out through my little study my
love came slowly forward, as though with some unwillingness.

She was dressed, as at the inquest, in deep mourning, wearing a
smartly-cut tailor-made dress trimmed with astrachan and a neat toque,
her pale countenance covered with a thick spotted veil.

"Ralph," she exclaimed in a low voice, "forgive me for calling upon
you at this hour. I know it's indiscreet, but I am very anxious to see
you."

I returned her greeting, rather coldly I am afraid, and led her to the
big armchair which had only a moment before been vacated by my friend.

When she seated herself and faced me I saw how changed she was, even
though she did not lift her veil. Her dark eyes seemed haggard and
sunken, her cheeks, usually pink with the glow of health, were white,
almost ghastly, and her slim, well-gloved hand, resting upon the chair
arm, trembled perceptibly.

"You have not come to me for two whole days, Ralph," she commenced in
a to