you?" she managed to exclaim at last, leading me into the
drawing-room, a long old-fashioned apartment with low ceiling
supported by black oak beams, and quaint diamond-paned windows at each
end.

"Well?" I inquired, when she had seated herself, and, with the evening
light upon her face, I saw how blanched and anxious she was.

"I want to consult you, Doctor, upon a serious and confidential
matter," she began, leaning forward, her thin white hands clasped in
her lap. "We have not met since the terrible blow fell upon us--the
death of poor Mary's husband."

"It must have been a great blow to you," I said sympathetically, for I
liked the old lady, and realised how deeply she had suffered.

"Yes, but to poor Mary most of all," she said. "They were so happy
together; and she was so devoted to him."

This was scarcely the truth; but mothers are often deceived as to
their daughters' domestic felicity. A wife is always prone to hide her
sorrows from her parents as far as possible. Therefore the old lady
had no doubt been the victim of natural deception.

"Yes," I agreed; "it was a tragic and terrible thing. The mystery is
quite unsolved."

"To me, the police are worse than useless," she said, in her slow,
weak voice; "they don't seem to have exerted themselves in the least
after that utterly useless inquest, with its futile verdict. As far
as I can gather, not one single point has been cleared up."

"No," I said; "not one."

"And my poor Mary!" exclaimed old Mrs. Mivart; "she is beside herself
with grief. Time seems to increase her melancholy, instead of bringing
forgetfulness, as I hoped it would."

"Where is Mrs. Courtenay?" I asked.

"Here. She's been back with me for nearly a month. It was to see her,
speak with her, and give me an opinion that I asked you to come down."

"Is she unwell?"

"I really don't know what ails her. She talks of her husband
incessantly, calls him by name, and sometimes behaves so strangely
that I have once or twice been much alarmed."

Her statement startled me. I had no idea that the young widow had
taken the old gentleman's death so much to heart. As far as I had been
able to judge, it seemed very much as though she had every desire to
regain her freedom from a matrimonial bond that galled her. That she
was grief-stricken over his death showed that I had entirely misjudged
her character.

"Is she at home now?" I asked.

"Yes, in her own sitting-room--the room we used as a s