Part 10 (1/2)

Minnie looked arch. When she looked arch, she was charming.

”Why, I never saw you prettier or more engaging in your life than you were that day,” she said evasively, as if trying to pique me.

”And you flirted so much, too! And everybody admired you so.

Everybody on the grounds... especially one person!”

I looked up at her in surprise. I was in my own room, seated by the dressing-table, late at night, when we'd gone up to bed; and Minnie was beside me, standing up, with her bedroom candle in that pretty white little hand of hers.

”What do you mean?” I exclaimed eagerly. ”Was it a dance--or a picnic?”

”Oh, you know very well,” Minnie went on teasingly, ”though you pretend you forget. HE was there, don't you know. You must remember HIM, if you've forgotten all the rest of your previous life. You say you remember the appropriate emotions. Well, he was an emotion: at least, you thought so. It was an Athletic Club Meeting: and Dr. Ivor was there. He went across on his bicycle.”

I gave a start of surprise. Minnie looked down at me half maliciously.

”There, you see,” she said archly again, ”at Dr. Ivor you change colour. I told you you'd remember him!”

I grew pale with astonishment.

”Minnie dear,” I said, holding her hands very tight in my own, ”it wasn't that, I a.s.sure you. I've forgotten him, utterly. If ever I knew a Dr. Ivor, if ever I flirted with him, as you seem to imply, he's gone clean out of my head. His name stirs no chord--recalls absolutely nothing. But I want to know about that Athletic Meeting.

Was my poor father there that day? And did he take a set of photographs?”

Minnie clapped her hands triumphantly.

”I KNEW you remembered!” she cried. ”Of course, Cousin Vivian was there. We drove over in a break. You MUST remember that. And he took a whole lot of instantaneous photographs.”

My hand trembled violently in my cousin's. I felt I was now on the very eve of a great discovery.

”Minnie,” I said, tentatively, ”do you think your papa would drive us over some day and--and show us the place again?”

”Of course he would, dear,” Minnie answered, with a gentle pressure of my hand. ”He'd be only too delighted. Whatever you choose. You know you were always such a favourite of daddy's.”

I knew nothing of the sort; but I was glad to learn it. I drew Minnie out a little more about the Athletics and my visit to Berry Pomeroy. She wouldn't tell me much: she was too illusive and indefinite: she never could get the notion out of her head, somehow, that I remembered all about it, and was only pretending to forgetfulness. But I gathered from what she said, that Dr. Ivor and I must have flirted a great deal; or, at least, that he must have paid me a good lot of attention. My father didn't like it, Minnie said; he thought Dr. Ivor wasn't well enough off to marry me. He was a distant cousin of ours, of course--everything was always ”of course” with that dear bright Minnie--what, didn't I know that? Oh, yes, his mother was one of the Moores of Barnstaple, cousin Edward's people. His name was Courtenay Moore Ivor, you know--though I knew nothing of the sort. And he was awfully clever. And, oh, so handsome!

”Is he at Berry Pomeroy still?” I asked, trembling, thinking this would be a good person to get information from about the people at the Athletic Sports.

”Oh dear, no,” Minnie answered, looking hard at me, curiously. ”He was never at Berry Pomeroy. He had a practice at Babbicombe. He's in Canada now, you know. He went over six months after Cousin Vivian's death. I think, dear,”--she hesitated,--”he never QUITE got over your entirely forgetting him, even if you forgot your whole past history.”

This was a curious romance to me, that Minnie thus sprang on me--a romance of my own past life of which I myself knew nothing.

We sat late talking, and I could see Minnie was very full indeed of Dr. Ivor. Over and over again she recurred to his name, and always as though she thought it might rouse some latent chord in my memory.

But nothing came of it. If ever I had cared for Dr. Ivor at all, that feeling had pa.s.sed away utterly with the rest of my experiences.

When Minnie rose to go, I took her hand once more in mine. As I did so, I started. Something about it seemed strangely familiar. I looked at it close with a keen glance. Why, this was curious! It was Aunt Emma's hand: it was my mother's hand: it was the hand in my mental Picture: it was the hand of the murderer!

”It's just like auntie's,” I said with an effort, seeing Minnie noticed my start.

She looked at it and laughed.