ain."

"And do you agree with me, further, that it is the outcome of the
tragedy at Kew?"

"Most certainly," he said. "That both husband and wife should be
murdered only a few months after one another points to motives of
revenge. You'll remember how nervous old Courtenay was. He went in
constant fear of his life, it was said. That fact proves conclusively
that he was aware of some secret enemy."

"Yes. Now that you speak of it, I recollect it quite well," I
remarked, adding, "But where, in the name of Fortune, have you been
keeping yourself during all these weeks of silence?"

"I've been travelling," he responded rather vaguely. "I've been going
about a lot."

"And keeping watch on Ethelwynn during part of the time," I laughed.

"She told you, eh?" he exclaimed, rather apprehensively. "I didn't
know that she ever recognised me. But women are always sharper than
men. Still, I'm sorry that she saw me."

"There's no harm done--providing you've made some discovery regarding
the seven secrets that compose the mystery," I said.

"Seven secrets!" he repeated thoughtfully, and then was silent a few
moments, as though counting to himself the various points that
required elucidation. "Yes," he said at last, "you're right, Ralph,
there are seven of them--seven of the most extraordinary secrets that
have ever been presented to mortal being as part of one and the same
mystery."

He did not, of course, enumerate them in his mind, as I had done, for
he was not aware of all the facts. The Seven Secrets, as they
presented themselves to me, were: First, the identity of the secret
assassin of Henry Courtenay; second, the manner in which that
extraordinary wound had been caused; thirdly, the secret of Ethelwynn,
held by Sir Bernard; fourthly, the secret motive of Ethelwynn in
remaining under the roof of the man who had discarded her in favour of
her sister; fifthly, the secret of Courtenay's reappearance after
burial; sixthly, the secret of the dastardly attempt on my life by
those ruffians of Lisson Grove; and, seventhly, the secret of Mary
Courtenay's death. Each and every one of the problems was inscrutable.
Others, of which I was unaware, had probably occurred to my friend. To
him, just as to me, the secrets were seven.

"Now, be frank with me, Ambler," I said, after a long pause. "You've
gained knowledge of some of them, haven't you?"

By his manner I saw that he was in possession of information of no
ordinary characte