“I am afraid I am a selfish, egotistical brute,” was my gloomy reply.  “I ought to be as gay and joyful as everyone else to-day, whereas the fact is that I am chafing over my own petty troubles.  You see, now that this case is finished, my engagement with Dr. Thorndyke terminates automatically, and I relapse into my old life—­a dreary repetition of journeying amongst strangers—­and the prospect is not inspiriting.  This has been a time of bitter trial to you, but to me it has been a green oasis in the desert of a colourless, monotonous life.  I have enjoyed the companionship of a most lovable man, whom I admire and respect above all other men, and with him have moved in scenes full of colour and interest.  And I have made one other friend whom I am loth to see fade out of my life, as she seems likely to do.”

“If you mean me,” said Juliet, “I may say that it will be your own fault if I fade out of your life.  I can never forget all that you have done for us, your loyalty to Reuben, your enthusiasm in his cause, to say nothing of your many kindnesses to me.  And, as to your having done your work badly, you wrong yourself grievously.  I recognised in the evidence by which Reuben was cleared to-day how much you had done, in filling in the details, towards making the case complete and convincing.  I shall always feel that we owe you a debt of the deepest gratitude, and so will Reuben, and so, perhaps, more than either of us, will someone else.”

“And who is that?” I asked, though with no great interest.  The gratitude of the family was a matter of little consequence to me.

“Well, it is no secret now,” replied Juliet.  “I mean the girl whom Reuben is going to marry.  What is the matter, Dr. Jervis?” she added, in a tone of surprise.

We were passing through the gate that leads from the Embankment to Middle Temple Lane, and I had stopped dead under the archway, laying a detaining hand upon her arm and gazing at her in utter amazement.

“The girl that Reuben is going to marry!” I repeated.  “Why, I had always taken it for granted that he was going to marry you.”

“But I told you, most explicitly, that was not so!” she exclaimed with some impatience.

“I know you did,” I admitted ruefully; “but I thought—­well, I imagined that things had, perhaps, not gone quite smoothly and—­”

“Did you suppose that if I had cared for a man, and that man had been under a cloud, I should have denied the relation or pretended that we were merely friends?” she demanded indignantly.

“I am sure you wouldn’t,” I replied hastily.  “I was a fool, an idiot—­by Jove, what an idiot I have been!”

“It was certainly very silly of you,” she admitted; but there was a gentleness in her tone that took away all bitterness from the reproach.

“The reason of the secrecy was this,” she continued; “they became engaged the very night before Reuben was arrested, and, when he heard of the charge against him, he insisted that no one should be told unless, and until, he was fully acquitted.  I was the only person who was in their confidence, and as I was sworn to secrecy, of course I couldn’t tell you; nor did I suppose that the matter would interest you.  Why should it?”