“Until I discover the truth I am resolved to maintain silence. All I can tell you is that the whole affair is so remarkable and astounding that its explanation will be even more bewildering than the tangled chain of circumstances.”
“Then you are actually in possession of the truth,” I remarked with some impatience. “What use is there to deny it?”
“At present I have suspicions—grave ones. That is all,” she protested.
“What is your theory regarding poor Mary’s death?” I asked, hoping to learn something from her.
“Suicide. Of that there seems not a shadow of doubt.”
I was wondering if she knew of the “dead” man’s existence. Being in sisterly confidence with Mary, she probably did.
“Did it ever strike you,” I asked, “that the personal appearance of Mr. Courtenay changed very considerably after death. You saw the body several times after the discovery. Did you notice the change?”
She looked at me sharply, as though endeavouring to discern my meaning.
“I saw the body several times, and certainly noticed a change in the features. But surely the countenance changes considerably if death is sudden?”
“Quite true,” I answered. “But I recollect that, in making the post-mortem, Sir Bernard remarked upon the unusual change. He seemed to have grown fully ten years older than when I had seen him alive four hours before.”