ou to place me in
possession of all the facts within your knowledge."

"Why do you ask me this?" she cried. "Is it out of mere idle curiosity?
Or is it because--because, knowing that Harry loved me, you wish to cause
me pain by recalling those tragic circumstances?"

"Neither," was his quiet answer in a low, sympathetic voice. "I am your
friend, Enid. And if you will allow me, I will assist you."

She held her breath. He spoke as though he were aware of the truth--that
she had not told him everything--that she was still concealing certain
important and material facts.

"I--I know you are my friend," she faltered. "I have felt that all along,
ever since our first meeting. But--but forgive me, I beg of you. The very
remembrance of that night of the second of September is, to me,
horrible--horrible."

To him those very words of hers increased his suspicion. Was it any
wonder that she was horrified when she recalled that gruesome episode of
the death of a brave and honest man? Her personal fascination had
overwhelmed Harry Bellairs, just as it had overwhelmed himself. The devil
sends some women into the hearts of upright men to rend and destroy them.

Upon her cheeks had spread a deadly pallor, while in the centre of each
showed a scarlet spot. Her heart was torn by a thousand emotions, for the
image of that man whom she had seen lying cold and dead in his room had
arisen before her vision, blotting out everything. The hideous
remembrance of that fateful night took possession of her soul.

In silence they walked on for a considerable time. Now and then a rabbit
scuttled from their path into the undergrowth or the alarm-cry of a bird
broke the evening stillness, until at last they came forth into the wide
highway, their faces set towards the autumn sunset.

Suddenly the man spoke.

"Have you heard of the doctor since you left London?" he asked.

She held her breath--only for a single second. But her hesitation was
sufficient to show him that she intended to conceal the truth.

"No," was her reply. "He has not written to me."

Again he was silent. There was a reason--a strong reason--why Weirmarsh
should not write to her, he knew. But he had, by his question, afforded
her an opportunity of telling him the truth--the truth that the
mysterious George Weirmarsh was there, in that vicinity. That Enid was
aware of that fact was certain to him.

"I wish," she said at last, "I wish you would call at the chateau and
al