fine jealousy for his friend sharpened his faculties of observation and of deduction, and he had observed the little doctor’s dry reception of Valentine after the struggle on the stairs, and his eager dismissal of them both to the street door on the howling excuse that rose up from the basement.  Such a mood might probably be transient, and only engendered by the fatigue of excitement, or even by the physical exhaustion attendant upon the preservation of Valentine from the rage of Rupert and Mab.  Julian told himself that to dwell upon it, or to conceive of it as permanent, was neither sensible nor acute, considering his intimate knowledge of the doctor’s nature, and of his firm friendship for Valentine.  That he did continue most persistently to dwell upon it, and with a keen suspicion, must be due to the present desolation of his circumstances, and to the vain babble of the blue-coated Methuselah, whose intellect roamed incessantly through a marine past, peopled with love episodes of a somewhat Rabelaisian character.

At the end of five days Julian abruptly threw up the sponge and returned to London, abandoning the old salt to the tobacco-chewing, which was his only solace during the winter season, now fast drawing to a close.  He went at once to see Valentine, who had a narrative to tell him concerning Marr.

“You have probably read all about Marr in the papers?” he asked, when he met Julian.

The question came at once with his hand-grasp.

“No,” Julian said.  “I shunted the papers, tried to give myself up entirely to the sea, as the doctor advised.  What has there been?”

“Oh, a good deal.  I may as well tell it to you, or no doubt Lady Crichton will.  People exaggerate so much.”

“Why—­what is there to exaggerate about?”

“The inquest was held,” Valentine answered.  “And every effort was made to find the woman who came with Marr to the hotel and evaporated so mysteriously, but there was no one to identify her.  The Frenchman had not noticed her features, and the housemaid, as you remember, was a fool, and could only say she was a common-looking person.”

“Well,” Julian said, rather eagerly, “but what was the cause of death?”

“That was entirely obscure.  The body seemed healthy—­at least the various organs were sound.  There was no obvious reason for death, and the verdict was, simply, ‘Died from failure of the heart’s action.’”

“Vague, but comprehensive.”

“Yes; I suppose we shall all die strictly from the same cause.”

“And that is all?”

“Not quite.  It appears that a description of the dead man got into the papers and that he was identified by his wife, who read the account in some remote part of the country, took the train to town, and found that Marr was, as she suspected, the man whom she had married, from whom she had separated, and whose real name was Wilson, the Wilson of a notorious newspaper case.  Do you remember it?”