Possibly it was at Vera's request that he would not tell me what he knew, yet upon this matter only was he silent, as he conversed freely of his own doings and acquaintances, and of his life since leaving the paternal roof, for though a Russian, he spoke English almost perfectly, and only in certain words could the accent be detected.

Somehow, though our acquaintance had been but brief, I had become greatly attached to him, such a mirthful cosmopolitan was he, br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with humour and good-fellowship and as light-hearted as his father was dark and sullen. He seemed to be untroubled by any thought or care, the sole object of his existence being to get the greatest amount of enjoyment out of life, and cause amus.e.m.e.nt to his companions.

Perplexed and uneasy, I longed for some one in whom to confide, and after he had gone, as I stood there brooding, I almost regretted I had not told him of my suspicions, and enlisted his sympathy and aid in tracking the murderer.

I knew, were I to tell him of my discovery of Vera's faithlessness, he would readily render any a.s.sistance, and even give me advice that I might follow with advantage. I had no one else near to whom I could speak, and after considerable deliberation I at last determined to take him into my confidence, provided I obtained an opportunity of speaking with him alone after breakfast.

To my pocket-book I transferred the mysterious piece of sealing-wax, and then sadly and thoughtfully resumed the task of putting my papers in order.

It took some time, and when finished I set about making preparations for my journey.

First I drew a cheque in favour of myself for a good round sum, then I sat down and wrote a long letter to Vera, which I intended she should read after I had gone.

Full of sorrow and regret, it was a letter in which I told her of my dejection and my inconsolable grief, yet expressing a bitter hope that her life might be happier in the future than mine would be, and explaining the arrangements I proposed whereby she would have a fair income, and Elveham to reside in as long as she wished.

More than once in the course of writing I was so overcome I could scarce proceed, and throwing down my pen was tempted to tear the letter up.

But it was a duty; the last communication between myself and she who had been dearest to me. I felt constrained to write on to the end, and append my signature.

After carefully reading it through, I placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to her, "to be opened after my departure."

The hours had crept on unnoticed; the servant had long ago come in for the purpose of dusting the place, but, seeing me, had retired. Just as I had written the superscription on the envelope the door again opened, and I found myself face to face with Vera.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

A MYSTERY STILL.

I rose with a resolute determination that it should be our last interview.

"Why, Frank," she exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise, as she advanced, "you haven't been to bed, and--why, what's the matter, dear?"

she added, noticing the expression of anger upon my countenance.

"You ought to know well enough," I replied sternly.

"How should I know?" she asked. "Why, the gas is still burning! Surely you've not been writing all night!"

"It seems your headache has left you," I exclaimed curtly, without answering her question.

"Yes, I feel better this morning."

"In fact, the pain disappeared as soon as you left me last night, eh?"

"What!--what do you mean, Frank?" she asked anxiously, in a strange voice, a sudden pallor overspreading her statuesque face.

"You plead ignorance; it is exactly what I expected. My meaning, I should have thought was pretty clear. You are not usually so dull."

"I do not understand you."

Her eyes wavered, she trembled with excitement, and I could see she was bent upon concealing the truth. This increased my anger.

"It is a lie!" I said sharply. "You are trying to deceive me, but I know the truth at last."

"Deceiving you! Why, what have I done that you should accuse me in this manner? Surely you are not yourself this morning?"

"You left me here writing last night, did you not?"

"Yes," she answered, gloomily.

"And thought that I was safe for a few hours, and would not keep an eye upon your movements?"

"What has that to do with it?"

"Simply this. A couple of hours after you shammed illness and left me, I went out into the Dene, and there I saw--"

"There you saw me!" she cried wildly, swaying forward, and clutching at the back of a chair for support. "_Dieu_! it is true, Frank; yes, true, I--I confess--I deceived you."

"Then you admit it!" I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, hardly believing my own ears.

"Yes; yes, I do," she moaned in tones of anguish. "But forgive me, and say no more about the occurrence. It was unfortunate, and no harm has been done."

I tried with difficulty to restrain my pa.s.sionate indignation. Such a cool request maddened me.

"Unfortunate?" I cried. "No; for me it is the reverse, for it has opened my eyes to your faithlessness. Forgive you this! The thing's absurd!"

"I unfaithful!" she repeated, looking vacantly about her, and clasping her hands. "I never thought it could be misconstrued into that! I unfaithful! Am I not your wife?" and with heaving breast and tearful eyes she bent her head as if to avert my gaze.

"Yes; you are my wife, but she who brings dishonour upon her husband is unworthy that name," I said, in a tone of disgust.

"I have not brought you dishonour," she declared, drawing herself up with dignity.

"You have, I tell you! Late last night you met a strange man in the Dene, and that man is your lover!" I retorted, decisively.

"That I am to blame, Frank, I admit," she said, dashing the tears from her eyes, "but he is not my lover. I swear you are mistaken. Nothing was further from my thoughts."

"Oh, don't tell me that! I know enough of the world to distinguish the meaning of such clandestine meetings," I replied, sickened at the manner she was endeavouring to clear herself.

"There is no love between us," she exclaimed; "but,"--and she paused.

"Then why meet him in such a secret manner?" I demanded, adding with a sneer, "perhaps you will tell me next that it was not you I saw, but a twin sister."

She still hesitated, with her eyes cast down as if in thought.

"You can give no answer," I continued with warmth, "because you are guilty."

"Guilty only of meeting him," she said, drawing a deep breath: "but I a.s.sure you there is no love between us--nay, I swear it--only a secret tie."

"I don't wish you to perjure yourself," I remarked coldly. "You `a.s.sure me'! What utter nonsense."

"I tell you the truth."