he is another of your
friends?"

"He never mentioned your name to me," I answered, truthfully enough.
"You will be sorry to hear that he is dying." As I said it we passed
by a lighted window, and I glanced down to see what effect my words had
upon her. She was laughing--there was no doubt of it; she was laughing
quietly to herself. I could see merriment in every feature of her face.
I feared and mistrusted the woman from that moment more than ever.

We said little more that night. When we parted she gave me a quick,
warning glance, as if to remind me of what she had said about the danger
of interference. Her cautions would have made little difference to me
could I have seen my way to benefiting Barrington Cowles by anything
which I might say. But what could I say? I might say that her former
suitors had been unfortunate. I might say that I believed her to be
a cruel-hearted woman. I might say that I considered her to possess
wonderful, and almost preternatural powers. What impression would any
of these accusations make upon an ardent lover--a man with my friend's
enthusiastic temperament? I felt that it would be useless to advance
them, so I was silent.

And now I come to the beginning of the end. Hitherto much has been
surmise and inference and hearsay. It is my painful task to relate now,
as dispassionately and as accurately as I can, what actually occurred
under my own notice, and to reduce to writing the events which preceded
the death of my friend.

Towards the end of the winter Cowles remarked to me that he intended
to marry Miss Northcott as soon as possible--probably some time in the
spring. He was, as I have already remarked, fairly well off, and the
young lady had some money of her own, so that there was no pecuniary
reason for a long engagement. "We are going to take a little house out
at Corstorphine," he said, "and we hope to see your face at our table,
Bob, as often as you can possibly come." I thanked him, and tried to
shake off my apprehensions, and persuade myself that all would yet be
well.

It was about three weeks before the time fixed for the marriage, that
Cowles remarked to me one evening that he feared he would be late that
night. "I have had a note from Kate," he said, "asking me to call about
eleven o'clock to-night, which seems rather a late hour, but perhaps she
wants to talk over something quietly after old Mrs. Merton retires."

It was not until after my friend's departure that I sud