I smiled at the lameness of her explanation. It was, however, an
ingenious evasion of the truth, for, after all, I could not deny that
I had known this through several years. Old Courtenay, being
practically confined to his room, had himself suggested Ethelwynn
bearing his young wife company.

"Answer me truthfully, dearest. Was there no further reason?"

She paused; and in her hesitation I detected a desire to deceive,
even though I loved her so fondly.

"Yes, there was," she admitted at last, bowing her head.

"Explain it."

"Alas! I cannot. It is a secret."

"A secret from me?"

"Yes, dear heart!" she cried, clutching my hands with a wild movement.
"Even from you."

My face must have betrayed the annoyance that I felt, for the next
second she hastened to soften her reply by saying:

"At present it is impossible for me to explain. Think! Poor Mary is
lying upstairs. I can say nothing at present--nothing--you
understand."

"Then afterwards--after the burial--you will tell me what you know?"

"Until I discover the truth I am resolved to maintain silence. All I
can tell you is that the whole affair is so remarkable and astounding
that its explanation will be even more bewildering than the tangled
chain of circumstances."

"Then you are actually in possession of the truth," I remarked with
some impatience. "What use is there to deny it?"

"At present I have suspicions--grave ones. That is all," she
protested.

"What is your theory regarding poor Mary's death?" I asked, hoping to
learn something from her.

"Suicide. Of that there seems not a shadow of doubt."

I was wondering if she knew of the "dead" man's existence. Being in
sisterly confidence with Mary, she probably did.

"Did it ever strike you," I asked, "that the personal appearance of
Mr. Courtenay changed very considerably after death. You saw the body
several times after the discovery. Did you notice the change?"

She looked at me sharply, as though endeavouring to discern my
meaning.

"I saw the body several times, and certainly noticed a change in the
features. But surely the countenance changes considerably if death is
sudden?"

"Quite true," I answered. "But I recollect that, in making the
post-mortem, Sir Bernard remarked upon the unusual change. He seemed
to have grown fully ten years older than when I had seen him alive
four hours before."

"Well," she asked, "is that any circumstance likely to lead to a
solution of the myster