y? I don't exactly see the point."

"It may," I answered ambiguously, puzzled at her manner and wondering
if she were aware of that most unaccountable feature of the
conspiracy.

"How?" she asked.

But as she had steadfastly refused to reveal her knowledge to me, or
the reason of her residence beneath Courtenay's roof, I myself claimed
the right to be equally vague.

We were still playing at cross-purposes; therefore I urged her to be
frank with me. But she strenuously resisted all my persuasion.

"No. With poor Mary lying dead I can say nothing. Later, when I have
found the clue for which I am searching, I will tell you what I know.
Till then, no word shall pass my lips."

I knew too well that when my love made up her mind it was useless to
try and turn her from her purpose. She was no shallow, empty-headed
girl, whose opinion could be turned by any breath of the social wind
or any invention of the faddists; her mind was strong and
well-balanced, so that she always had the courage of her own
convictions. Her sister, on the contrary, had been one of those giddy
women who follow every frill and furbelow of Fashion, and who take up
all the latest crazes with a seriousness worthy of better objects. In
temperament, in disposition, in character, and in strength of mind
they had been the exact opposite of each other; the one sister flighty
and thoughtless, the other patient and forbearing, with an utter
disregard for the hollow artificialities of Society.

"But in this matter we may be of mutual assistance to each other," I
urged, in an effort to persuade her. "As far as I can discern, the
mystery contains no fewer than seven complete and distinct secrets. To
obtain the truth regarding one would probably furnish the key to the
whole."

"Then you think that poor Mary's untimely death is closely connected
with the tragedy at Kew?" she asked.

"Most certainly. But I do not share your opinion of suicide."

"What? You suspect foul play?" she cried.

I nodded in the affirmative.

"You believe that poor Mary was actually murdered?" she exclaimed,
anxiously. "Have you found marks of violence, then?"

"No, I have found nothing. My opinion is formed upon a surmise."

"What surmise?"

I hesitated whether to tell her all the facts that I had discovered,
for I was disappointed and annoyed that she should still preserve a
dogged silence, now that a reconciliation had been brought about.

"Well," I answered, after a pau