“Well,” she asked, “is that any circumstance likely to lead to a solution of the mystery? I don’t exactly see the point.”
“It may,” I answered ambiguously, puzzled at her manner and wondering if she were aware of that most unaccountable feature of the conspiracy.
“How?” she asked.
But as she had steadfastly refused to reveal her knowledge to me, or the reason of her residence beneath Courtenay’s roof, I myself claimed the right to be equally vague.
We were still playing at cross-purposes; therefore I urged her to be frank with me. But she strenuously resisted all my persuasion.
“No. With poor Mary lying dead I can say nothing. Later, when I have found the clue for which I am searching, I will tell you what I know. Till then, no word shall pass my lips.”
I knew too well that when my love made up her mind it was useless to try and turn her from her purpose. She was no shallow, empty-headed girl, whose opinion could be turned by any breath of the social wind or any invention of the faddists; her mind was strong and well-balanced, so that she always had the courage of her own convictions. Her sister, on the contrary, had been one of those giddy women who follow every frill and furbelow of Fashion, and who take up all the latest crazes with a seriousness worthy of better objects. In temperament, in disposition, in character, and in strength of mind they had been the exact opposite of each other; the one sister flighty and thoughtless, the other patient and forbearing, with an utter disregard for the hollow artificialities of Society.
“But in this matter we may be of mutual assistance to each other,” I urged, in an effort to persuade her. “As far as I can discern, the mystery contains no fewer than seven complete and distinct secrets. To obtain the truth regarding one would probably furnish the key to the whole.”
“Then you think that poor Mary’s untimely death is closely connected with the tragedy at Kew?” she asked.
“Most certainly. But I do not share your opinion of suicide.”