utely
certain of the facts."

"I don't quite follow you," I said, rather puzzled.

"I mean that at present the information I have is vague," she replied.
"But if it is the truth, as I expect to establish it, then you must
dissociate yourself from him, Ralph."

"You have only suspicions?"

"Only suspicions."

"Of what?"

"Of a fact which will some day astound you."

Our eyes met again, and I saw in hers a look of intense earnestness
that caused me to wonder. To what could she possibly be referring?

"You certainly arouse my curiosity," I said, affecting to laugh. "Do
you really think Sir Bernard such a very dreadful person, then?"

"Ah! You do not take my words seriously," she remarked. "I am warning
you, Ralph, for your own benefit. It is a pity you do not heed me."

"I do heed you," I declared. "Only your statement is so strange that
it appears almost incredible."

"Incredible it may seem; but one day ere long you will be convinced
that what I say to-night is the truth."

"What do you say?"

"I say that Sir Bernard Eyton, the man in whom you place every
confidence, and whose example as a great man in his profession you are
so studiously following, is not your friend."

"Nor yours, I suppose?"

"No, neither is he mine."

This admission was at least the truth. I had known it long ago. But
what had been the cause of difference between them was hidden in
deepest mystery. Sir Bernard, as old Mr. Courtenay's most intimate
friend, knew, in all probability, of his engagement to her, and of its
rupture in favour of her sister Mary. It might even be that Sir
Bernard had had a hand in the breaking of the engagement. If so, that
would well account for her violent hostility towards him.

Such thoughts, with others, flashed through my mind as I sat
there facing her. She was leaning back, her hands fallen idly
upon her lap, peering straight at me through that spotted veil
which, half-concealing her wondrous beauty, imparted to her an
additional air of mystery.

"You have quarrelled with Sir Bernard, I presume?" I hazarded.

"Quarrelled!" she echoed. "We were never friends."

Truly she possessed all a clever woman's presence of mind in the
evasion of a leading question.

"He was an acquaintance of yours?"

"An acquaintance--yes. But I have always distrusted him."

"Mary likes him, I believe," I remarked. "He was poor Courtenay's most
intimate friend for many years."

"She judges him from that standpoin