iety seemed to have left her. She had read in the papers of the
curious connection between the death of the man Lane and that of her
unfortunate sister; therefore our conversation was mainly upon the
river mystery. Sometimes she seemed ill at ease with me, as though
fearing some discovery. Perhaps, however, it was merely my fancy.

I loved her. She was all the world to me; and yet in her eyes I seemed
to read some hidden secret which she was endeavouring, with all the
power at her command, to conceal. In such circumstances there was
bound to arise between us a certain reserve that we had not before
known. Her conversation was carried on in a mechanical manner, as
though distracted by her inner thoughts; and when, after having tea
together in Bond Street, we drove to the station, and I saw her off on
her return to Neneford, my mind was full of darkest apprehensions.

Yes. That interview convinced me more than ever that she was, in some
manner, cognisant of the truth. The secret existence of old Mr.
Courtenay, the man whom I myself had pronounced dead, was the crowning
point of the strange affair; and yet I felt by some inward intuition
that this fact was not unknown to her.

All the remarkable events of that moonlit night when I had followed
husband and wife along the river-bank came back to me, and I saw
vividly the old man's face, haggard and drawn, just as it had been in
life. Surely there could be no stranger current of events than those
which formed the Seven Secrets. They were beyond explanation--all of
them. I knew nothing. I had certainly seen results; but I knew not
their cause.

Nitrate of amyl was not a drug which a costermonger would select with
a view to committing suicide. Indeed, I daresay few of my readers,
unless they are doctors or chemists, have ever before heard of it.
Therefore my own conclusion, fully endorsed by the erratic Ambler,
was that the poor fellow had been secretly poisoned.

Nearly a fortnight passed, and I heard nothing of Ambler. He was still
"out of town." Day by day passed, but nothing of note transpired. Sir
Bernard was still suffering from a slight touch of sciatica at home,
and on visiting him one Sunday I found him confined to his bed,
grumbling and peevish. He was eccentric in his miserly habits and his
hatred of society, beyond doubt; and the absurdities which his enemies
attributed to him were not altogether unfounded. But he had, at all
events, the rare quality of enterta