“I wish to ask you a few questions,” Maitland said to Gwen as soon as the door had closed behind Osborne and his companion, “and I beg you will remember that in doing so, however personal my inquiries may seem, they have but one object in view—­the solution of this mystery.”  “I have already had good proof of your singleness of purpose,” she replied.  “Only too gladly will I give you any information in my possession.  Until this assassin is found, and my father’s good name freed from the obloquy which has been cast upon it, my existence will be but a blank,—­yes, worse, it will be an unceasing torment; for I know my father’s spirit—­if the dead have power to return to this earth—­can never rest with this weight of shame upon it.”  As she spoke these words the depth of grief she had hitherto so well concealed became visible for a moment, and her whole frame shook as the expression of her emotion reacted upon her.  The next instant she regained her old composure, and said calmly: 

“You see I have every reason to shed whatever light I can upon this dark subject.”

“Please, then, to answer my questions methodically, and do not permit yourself to reason why I have asked them.  What was your father’s age?”

“Sixty-two.”

“Did he drink?”

“No.”

“Did he play cards?”

“Yes.”

“Poker?”

“Yes, and several other games.”

“Was he as fond of them as of croquet?”

“No; nothing pleased him as croquet did—­nothing, unless it were chess.”

“Hum!  Do you play chess?”

“Yes; I played a good deal with father.”

“What kind of a game did he play?”

“I do not understand you.  He played a good game; my father did not enjoy doing anything that he could not do well.”

“I mean to ask if his positions were steadily sustained—­or if, on the other hand, his manoeuvres were swift, and what you might call brilliant.”

“I think you would call them brilliant.”

“Hum!  How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Tell me your relations with your father.”

“We were most constant companions.  My mother—­she and my father —­they were not altogether companionable—­in short, they were ill-mated, and, being wise enough to find it out, and having no desire to longer embitter each other’s lives, they agreed to separate when I was only four.  They parted without the slightest ill-feeling, and I remained with father.  He was very fond of me, and would permit no one else to teach me.  At seven I was drawing and painting under his guidance.  At eight the violin was put into my hands and my studies in voice began.  In the meantime father was most careful not to neglect my physical training; he taught me the use of Indian clubs, and how to walk easily.  At eight I could walk four miles an hour without fatigue.  The neighbours used to urge that I be put to school, but