anner 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."

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 woul