"Then you learned nothing, eh?"
"Nothing," she said in a low voice. "I have ever since wondered what could have been the private matter upon which he so particularly desired to see me. He felt death creeping upon him, or—or else he knew himself to be a doomed man—or he would never have penned me that note."
"The letter in question was not mentioned at the inquest?"
"No. My stepfather urged me to regard the affair as a strict secret. He feared a scandal because I had gone to Harry's rooms."
"You have no idea, then, what was the nature of the communication which the captain wished to make to you?" asked the novelist.
"Not the slightest," replied the girl, yet with some hesitation. "It is all a mystery—a mystery which has ever haunted me—a mystery which haunts me now!"
They had halted, and were standing together beneath a great oak, already partially bare of leaves. He looked into her beautiful face, sweet and full of purity as a child's. Then, in a low, intense voice, he said: "Cannot you be quite frank with me, Enid—cannot you give me more minute details of the sad affair? Captain Bellairs was in his usual health that day when he left you at Salisbury, was he not?"
"Oh, yes. I drove him to the station in our car."
"Have you any idea why your stepfather sent him up to London?"
"Not exactly, except that at breakfast he said to my mother that he must send Bellairs up to London. That was all."