for a second or two made me feel terribly uncomfortable. But I
glanced at his back and at his hands, and reassured myself. That
broad, short man was not the slim figure of my Picture and of the
photograph. Those large red hands were not the originals of the
small and delicate white palm just displayed at the back in both
those strange documents of the mysterious murder.

The doctor came over again, and drew his chair close to mine.

"Una, my child," he said slowly, "I love you very much, as if you
were my own daughter. I always loved you and admired you, and was
sorry--oh, so sorry!--for you. You've quite forgotten who I am; but
I've not forgotten you. Take what I say as coming from an old
friend, from one who loves you and has your interest at heart. For
heaven's sake, I implore you, my child, make no more inquiries. Try
to forget--not to remember. If you do recollect, you'll be sorry in
the end for it."

"Why so?" I asked, amazed, yet somehow feeling in my heart I could
trust him implicitly. "Why should the knowledge of the true
circumstances of the case make me more unhappy than I am at
present?"

He gazed harder at me than ever.

"Because," he replied in slow tones, weighing each word as he spoke,
"you may find that the murder was committed by some person or
persons you love or once loved very much indeed. You may find it
will rend your very heart-strings to see that person or those
persons punished. You may find the circumstances were wholly