e local police are making active inquiries, I believe."

"I wonder who it could have been?" Sir Bernard exclaimed reflectively.
"Mrs. Courtenay was always so devoted to poor Henry, that the story of
the stranger appears to me very like some invention of the villagers.
Whenever a tragedy occurs in a rural district all kinds of absurd
canards are started. Probably that's one of them. It is only natural
for the rustic mind to connect a lover with a pretty young widow."

"Exactly. But I have certain reasons for believing the clandestine
meeting to have taken place," I said.

"What causes you to give credence to the story?"

"Statements made to me," I replied vaguely. "And further, all the
evidence points to murder."

"Then why did the jury return an open verdict?"

"It was the best thing they could do in the circumstances, as it
leaves the police with a free hand."

"But who could possibly have any motive for the poor little woman's
death?" he asked, with a puzzled, rather anxious expression upon his
grey brow.

"The lover may have wished to get rid of her," I suggested.

"You speak rather ungenerously, Boyd," he protested. "Remember, we
don't know for certain that there was a lover in the case, and we
should surely accept the rumours of country yokels with considerable
hesitation."

"I make no direct accusation," I said. "I merely give as my opinion
that she was murdered by the man she was evidently in the habit of
meeting. That's all."

"Well, if that is so, then I hope the police will be successful in
making an arrest," declared the old physician. "Poor little woman!
When is the funeral?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"I must send a wreath. How sad it is! How very sad!" And he sighed
sympathetically, and sat staring with fixed eyes at the dark green
wall opposite.

"It's time you caught your train," I remarked, glancing at the clock.

"No," he answered. "I'm dining at the House of Commons to-night with
my friend Houston. I shall remain in town all night. I so very seldom
allow myself any dissipation," and he smiled rather sadly.

Truly he led an anchorite's life, going to and fro with clockwork
regularity, and denying himself all those diversions in Society which
are ever at the command of a notable man. Very rarely did he accept an
invitation to dine, and the fact that he lived down at Hove was in
order to have a good excuse to evade people. He was a great man, with
all a great man's little eccentric