eve that ill-luck
follows a premature exposure of one's plans," he said.

His excuse was a lame one--a very lame one. I smiled--in order to show
him that I read through such a transparent attempt to mislead me.

"I might have refused to show you that letter of Ethelwynn's," I
protested. "Yet our interests being mutual I handed it to you."

"And it is well that you did."

"Why?"

"Because knowledge of it has changed the whole course of my
inquiries."

"Changed them from one direction to another?"

He nodded.

"And you are now prosecuting them in the direction of Ethelwynn?"

"No," he answered. "Not exactly."

I looked at his face, and saw upon it an expression of profound
mysteriousness. His dark, well-marked countenance was a complex one
always, but at that moment I was utterly unable to discern whether he
spoke the truth, or whether he only wished to mislead my suspicions
into a different channel. That he was the acme of shrewdness, that his
powers of deduction were extraordinary, and that his patience in
unravelling a secret was almost beyond comprehension I knew well. Even
those great trackers of criminals, Shaw and Maddox, of New Scotland
Yard, held him in respect, and admired his acute intelligence and
marvellous power of perception.

Yet his attempt to evade a question which so closely concerned my own
peace of mind and future happiness tried my patience. If he had really
discovered some fresh facts I considered it but right that I should be
acquainted with them.

"Has your opinion changed as to the identity of the person who
committed the crime?" I asked him, rather abruptly.

"Not in the least," he responded, slowly lighting his foul pipe. "How
can it, in the face of the letter we burnt?"

"Then you think that jealousy was the cause of the tragedy? That
she----"

"No, not jealousy," he interrupted, speaking quite calmly. "The facts
I have discovered go to show that the motive was not jealousy."

"Hatred, then?"

"No, not hatred."

"Then what?"

"That's just where I fail to form a theory," he answered, after a
brief silence, during which he watched the blue smoke curl upward to
the sombre ceiling of my room. "In a few days I hope to discover the
motive."

"You will let me assist you?" I urged, eagerly. "I am at your disposal
at any hour."

"No," he answered, decisively. "You are prejudiced, Ralph. You
unfortunately still love that woman."

A sigh escaped me. What he said was, alas!