“And do you agree with me, further, that it is the outcome of the tragedy at Kew?”
“Most certainly,” he said. “That both husband and wife should be murdered only a few months after one another points to motives of revenge. You’ll remember how nervous old Courtenay was. He went in constant fear of his life, it was said. That fact proves conclusively that he was aware of some secret enemy.”
“Yes. Now that you speak of it, I recollect it quite well,” I remarked, adding, “But where, in the name of Fortune, have you been keeping yourself during all these weeks of silence?”
“I’ve been travelling,” he responded rather vaguely. “I’ve been going about a lot.”
“And keeping watch on Ethelwynn during part of the time,” I laughed.
“She told you, eh?” he exclaimed, rather apprehensively. “I didn’t know that she ever recognised me. But women are always sharper than men. Still, I’m sorry that she saw me.”
“There’s no harm done—providing you’ve made some discovery regarding the seven secrets that compose the mystery,” I said.
“Seven secrets!” he repeated thoughtfully, and then was silent a few moments, as though counting to himself the various points that required elucidation. “Yes,” he said at last, “you’re right, Ralph, there are seven of them—seven of the most extraordinary secrets that have ever been presented to mortal being as part of one and the same mystery.”
He did not, of course, enumerate them in his mind, as I had done, for he was not aware of all the facts. The Seven Secrets, as they presented themselves to me, were: First, the identity of the secret assassin of Henry Courtenay; second, the manner in which that extraordinary wound had been caused; thirdly, the secret of Ethelwynn, held by Sir Bernard; fourthly, the secret motive of Ethelwynn in remaining under the roof of the man who had discarded her in favour of her sister; fifthly, the secret of Courtenay’s reappearance after burial; sixthly, the secret of the dastardly attempt on my life by those ruffians of Lisson Grove; and, seventhly, the secret of Mary Courtenay’s death. Each and every one of the problems was inscrutable. Others, of which I was unaware, had probably occurred to my friend. To him, just as to me, the secrets were seven.
“Now, be frank with me, Ambler,” I said, after a long pause. “You’ve gained knowledge of some of them, haven’t you?”