"Well, what did she say when you came back?" he said.

"That I was the only one besides herself who had ever done it. She had asked several, and they had all cried off. I don't say it to brag, mind--in proof whereof I don't mind adding that she said she could see I was in a beastly funk all the time, because my hand on the branch of the infernal tree shook, and, by the Lord, it did."

"Reminds one of the old yam about the lady and the knight and the jay's nest on the castle wall," said the doctor. "Never mind, Elvesdon. I'm one of those who funked going on it. She asked me to once."

"The devil she did."

"Yes. I told her straight I was much too old and fat to launch out in those circus experiments. But that excuse wouldn't do with an athletic young 'un like you."

"Well, several other 'athletic young 'uns' seem to have shied at it anyway. Here, I seem to be bragging again but I don't mean to. Of course a man's a fool to try and do a thing of that sort if he knows he can't. Still, I thought I could--at a pinch." And again the listener chuckled.

"By the way, Vine," said Elvesdon tentatively, "you've been here a long time and I'm only a new broom. Did you know Thornhill's wife?"

"Yes."

"What was she like. You know I've been over at their place several times, and have never seen any portrait of her of any kind. Nor have I ever heard her alluded to in any way."

"No. You wouldn't be likely to."

Elvesdon nodded.

"I see," he said.

"No--not that. You're on the wrong track. Look here, Elvesdon," went on the doctor, gravely. "You'd better have the real position from me, since you're sure to have it sooner or later from somebody else, and then probably more or less inaccurately given. The wonder to me is that you've heard nothing about it already, but I suppose the few people round here, seeing you were rather thick with Thornhill, concluded to keep their heads shut."

"But, Vine, what _is_ the mystery? What the devil _is_ the mystery?

Let's have it."

He was speaking quickly, excitedly. For the life of him he could not help it.

"Thornhill is supposed to have murdered his wife," answered Vine.

"Good G.o.d!"

Elvesdon had started up in his chair, as if he had suddenly realised the presence of a pin in the cushion, and then sat back, staring at the other; and indeed his amazement was little to be wondered at, for to be suddenly told that a man for whom he had conceived a sincere liking and regard, and a growing friendship, was a probable murderer, was disconcerting, to say the least of it.

"'Supposed'? Exactly. But it was never proved against him?" he said, recovering himself and feeling somewhat relieved. "As, of course it couldn't have been or he wouldn't be where he is now. What were the facts?"

"Mrs Thornhill disappeared."

"How and where?"

"'How' is just what n.o.body knows. 'Where'--on their own place, same place they're living on now."

"What would the motive have been?" Elvesdon had collected himself. He was vividly interested but was becoming magisterial again.

"Motive? Plenty of that; in fact that's what made things look sultry against Thornhill. She led him the devil of a life. To put it briefly, Thornhill's version was that she rushed out of the house one night after a more than ordinarily violent 'breeze,' making all sorts of insane announcements. He did not follow her immediately, as he said at the time, partly because he wanted to give her time to come to her senses, partly because--and here he was injudiciously frank, in that he supplied motive and turned public opinion against himself--he honestly did not care what happened to her, so sick was he of the life she had been leading him. He said nothing about her disappearance at first, explaining that he expected her back at any minute, in which case he would have made a fool of himself all about nothing."

"Couldn't he have taken up her spoor?" said Elvesdon.

"Not much. There had been a succession of violent thunder-storms, and the face of the veldt was washed smooth by torrential rains. No spoor to be taken up."

"By Jove, it's a mysterious affair," said Elvesdon. "How long ago was it, by the way?"

"Eighteen or nineteen years. He was arrested and kept in the _tronk_ for some weeks, while every hole and corner of his farm was searched.

They even dug up the cattle-kraals in search of remains--you know, Elvesdon, like that Moat Farm business in England a year or two ago-- only of course in this case they found nothing. Thornhill half laughed when he was told of this, only saying that he had never for a moment imagined they would. Well of course, there was only one way out; for no one knows better than yourself that a man can't be put upon his trial for murder until it is proved that a murder has been committed, which in this case it seemed impossible to do. So our friend was turned loose again."

"Of course. But what of the general opinion. Was it believed he'd done it?"

"That's just how it was. Not a man Jack or woman Jill but was firmly convinced of it, and for a long time he was practically boycotted. For the matter of that, even now they don't get many visitors you may have noticed."

"Yes. That has occurred to me. By the way. Vine, what about the children. How did the suspicion affect them as they grew up? Did they believe it?"

"The boys didn't, but the strange and sad part of it is that the girl did, and does still."

Elvesdon started.

"And--does still?" he echoed. "I see."

Now the situation stood explained. Edala's strange behaviour, the cold aloofness with which she treated her father, except at rare intervals.

Heavens, what a ghastly shadow to lie between them! Yet, as it did so he, perhaps her behaviour was not altogether unnatural.

"The boys didn't believe it?" he repeated.

"No--never. They grew up firmly refusing to believe it. They were fine youngsters. Jim, poor chap, was killed in the Matopos in '96. He was the eldest. Hyland is broking at the Rand. By the way, Thornhill was telling me the other day that he expected him down on a visit."

"Yes, I know. There was someone else he was expecting, an English relative. She wrote to him from Durban, inviting herself, and he wired her back to roll up as soon as she liked. Then he heard nothing more about her. By the _Lord_, I wonder," he broke off. "I wonder if she got hold of this yam about him, and concluded to stop away. It might be."

"So it might. But what I wonder at, Elvesdon, is that this affair should be all news to you. Why it caused some considerable kick up at the time."

"At the time. That's just it. It must have been during the couple of years I was over in England and the States.--Come in," as a knock came at the door.

"Please sir," said the native constable, who was proud of airing his English, "dere's one lady--like see _Nkose_."

"One lady? Look here Isaac. Do you mean a 'lady' or some _bywoner vrouw_, come for a summons against somebody?"

"Dis one lady, sir. She ask for Mr Elvesdon, not for de magistrate."

"Oh, show her in. Don't go, doctor, till we see what she wants."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THE NEW ARRIVAL.

The native constable was holding open the door. There was a soft rustle of feminine attire as its wearer crossed the empty Court room, and the newcomer entered.

"Mr Elvesdon, I believe?" she said, after a rapid glance at both men, and easily identifying the right one. "I must introduce myself. My name is Carden--Evelyn Carden--and you may have heard of me from Mr Thornhill. He lives near here, does he not?"