In a few moments Maud recovered from her agitation. With her eyes still fixed upon the man, she hoarsely asked:

“You saw all that—on—on the morning of the tragedy?”

“I did, and you can’t deny the facts.”

“I am not denying them, Dick Harley. What would be the use to deny them—to you? But, let me tell you something.” She clutched him violently by the coat collar. “If you saw all that—if you were there in that house—you murdered Allen Chesterbrook.”

As she uttered the terrible accusation she held him tight, still gazing into his eyes with an intensity, an earnestness that fairly penetrated his soul. He tried to shake off her hold, but she clung to him with the force of desperation.

“You cannot deny it, Dick Harley; you went back and murdered him. You stabbed him through the heart with the dagger that lay on the bureau.”

His eyes fell and his face blanched. He could have withstood a judge and jury, a hundred others, but he could not withstand her—the woman he had once loved—nay, the woman he still loved, in his own selfish fashion.

“What makes you think I went back——” He began, but she boldly interrupted him; she was not to be hoodwinked.

“It is you who did that foul deed. What answer have you to make to this accusation?”

She bent closer and both hands now grasped his collar. She would not let him turn his face away.

“I had the right,” he muttered, at last. “You were my wife, and he had no right to your affection.”

She flung him from her. She had heard enough. He had confessed the foul deed. He had murdered Allen Chesterbrook.

She was married to this man. Even at that intense moment she thought of the terrible truth. He was her husband, and he was a murderer.

“You—you base wretch!” She could find nothing else to say.

“Don’t be hard on me,” he cried. “Consider the circumstances—the demon of jealousy that was aroused within me when I saw his endearments with my wife. He had no right to your love. And, besides, if he had lived, and you had married him, see what trouble it would have made. You surely wouldn’t want to have two husbands.”

“You murdered him!” This sentence expressed everything—the acme of his villainy. That single bitter thought was supreme. Oh, to think that she was married to this vile wretch! She felt as if her very heart was dead within her.

“Don’t call it that, Maud; say I removed him out of our way. And I had good cause. Do you suppose I loved you so lightly I was willing to give up my claim on you?”

“And yet you were willing to sacrifice that claim for a few paltry dollars!” At last she found her tongue. “You would sell it out—after dyeing your hands red with——”

“Stop! No more of that, I tell you. I can’t stand it. I was enraged when I witnessed your affection for him. I didn’t do it cold-bloodedly, either. I first told him who I was, and he gave me the lie, and some hot words followed.”

“You told him you were my—my——”

“Husband! Exactly! And he wouldn’t believe it, said you had just told him I was dead. The thrust was made before I knew what I was doing. It was done in self-defense. It was my life or his after the first blow was struck.”

“But how did you escape? The doors were locked.”

“I got out of the window and into the next room—the empty one in which I was hiding when you were in there with him. Not a soul was in the hall, although I heard talking in the basement—and went out, as you did, by the back entrance.”

He told the story so plainly she knew it must be true. He did not appear to care very much, years of dissolute living had so hardened him. She paused a long while before replying.

“Do you realize that you are a murderer—that you are liable to be hung?”

He started.

“The authorities are all astray. They don’t suspect that I did the deed,” he cried; “they don’t know, and you won’t dare to tell.”

“Why not? Do you know that an innocent man is now being tried for this crime?”

“The jury won’t convict him. It is rarely done on circumstantial evidence.”

“He may be convicted. What then?”

“He will not be convicted, I say. I have heard the trial, so far, and I looked the jury over carefully. They haven’t backbone enough to convict him—in the first degree. And what does it matter to us if he is sent up for a few years? His friends will soon have him pardoned. He’s rich, I’ve heard.”

She shivered at his words, every one of which cut her like a knife. If he knew the truth, knew that Cross loved her, and that she loved him—loved him more than she had loved Chesterbrook—more than any one else in the wide world, now that she was sure he was innocent, in spite of the web Jack Hull had woven around him.

“You would let an innocent man’s reputation be forever blasted?” she said slowly.

“See here, Maud, that isn’t a fair way to put it. I did the deed, true enough, but in self-defense, I tell you; and you surely don’t expect me to give myself up to the police for it. Nobody would believe my story. It’s that chap’s own fault if he doesn’t manage to clear himself. He has money enough to hire the best lawyers in the State, and obtain half a dozen trials, if he needs them.”

“All that isn’t to the point,” she responded coldly.

“Well, you won’t dare to give me away,” he said recklessly, and with a low laugh. “If you do, I’ll tell everything about myself, yourself, Chesterbrook and all. How will you relish that, with that old father of yours sitting in a front seat, listening—eh?”

She shrank back. He had touched her where she was most sensitive, and he knew it. He paused for the poison to work, and then continued: “So you might as well say nothing; get that five thousand in cash for me, say good-by, and let the future take care of itself.”

“Never!”

She uttered the word so resolutely that he jumped as if stung by a viper. He glared at her.

“You won’t get the money for me?”

“I will not.”

“You shall!”

“I say I will not. I will tell all, no matter what the shame, before I will allow Henry Cross to suffer the loss of his good name.”

He sprang at her, as if to force the words down her throat. But she caught up the lantern and waved it at him threateningly.

“Do not approach me, Dick Harley.”

“You shall first promise me to keep silent.”

“I will promise nothing to a murderer.”

“Then listen to me: Your exposure will gain you nothing, for to-night I shall leave Lakeview, never to return. And who will believe your story then? They will say that you are mad, that you are merely trying to save that man—I understand he is a warm personal friend of the family—and there the influence of your story will end.”

“You shall not go.”

“I will go, and you shall not hear from me until this matter is settled; and then”—his tone turned from deep earnestness to light sarcasm—“then I will again open negotiations for that five thousand dollars. Perhaps, by that time, you’ll be better able to pay me.”

He backed toward the doorway. She put up her hand appealingly.

“Stay!”

“Not unless you will swear to keep my secret.”

“That I will never do.”

“Then I am going. I might be violent with you, but it’s not my usual style. Remember all I have said. After this matter of the murder is settled, and you have realized the wisdom of remaining silent, you shall hear from me again; not before.”

He made a mocking bow and passed out. She cried to him to stop, but he would not; and, running outside, she saw him hurrying up the beach in the direction opposite to that of Lakeview.

She thought to run after him, to seize him and cry for help; but ere she had gone two rods he was out of sight around a bend where the woods ran down almost to the water’s edge.

For a short time she remained on the sands, eagerly watching for his reappearance, hoping he would return. But not a sign of a human being appeared; then, sick at heart, her brain in a mad whirl, she staggered homeward.

How she managed to gain entrance without arousing suspicion, she never knew. But there she was, locked up in her own room, trembling from head to foot, her face the picture of woe and utter despair.

“A murderer, and I am wedded to him!” The thought was agony; it was enough to drive her mad. But, then, there were others who were involved. She thought of Cross, and what he must suffer if she remained silent. And, after all, it might be as Harley had said—they would not believe her sensational story and then what? They would point the finger of shame at her, and Cross would still be adjudged guilty.

But there was a chance; he might be acquitted; and, as a drowning person catches at the proverbial straw, so she clutched at that faint ray of hope. Oh, if they would only bring in a verdict of not guilty, or even if they would disagree!

A hundred thoughts ran through her brain as she lay awake the whole of that long night. She wanted to do her whole duty—and yet every fiber of her being shrank from that terrible exposure. Who could blame her?

The light of day found her in a fever, turning and tossing like one on the rack of the inquisition. Her father came in, and, finding her ill, at once sent for a physician.

The medical man immediately saw that something extremely serious had transpired, but he asked no questions. He opened his case, brought forth some powders, and gave her one in a little water. She took it without a murmur and dropped into a troubled sleep that lasted far into the afternoon.

Her father remained at home, seldom leaving her side, save to get his meals. In the evening she attempted to get up, but another powder was administered, and she dropped into sleep again, and did not awaken until the following morning at seven o’clock.

“Oh, father, father!” were her first words, and, half rising, she buried her face on his shoulder.

“There, there, Maud, try to be calm, my dear. I knew you could never endure the strain of that trial. You must keep quiet. Nancy will soon bring some breakfast to you, and then you must take another powder.”

“Oh, father, if you only knew!” she sobbed. “If you only knew!”

“Yes, yes, Maud, I know all about it. But you must brace up.”

“Will they—have they found him guilty?”

“The case has been given to the jury. They went out last night. Folks say it looks like a disagreement,” he added kindly.

She caught at his words. Oh, that they would disagree, that Henry Cross might have another chance, and she have time to think of the best course to pursue!

The colored woman appeared with a tray, and, to please her father, she ate a little of the food.

“Now you go down, papa,” she said. “I will take the powder when I have finished.”

So he went below, and a few minutes later Nancy followed, leaving the sufferer alone.

Maud sat for some minutes without moving. The powders had clouded her brain so that she could not think clearly; but she eagerly took up the one on the stand beside her. What blessed sleep it produced, sinking all her troubles in deep oblivion! If such a sleep might only last forever!

Then she thought of Henry Cross, awaiting the verdict of the jury. Did he still think of her as a guilty woman? Ah, how could it be otherwise?

She heard the sound of wheels on the gravel path below. She knew what they meant—that John was returning from the town with the paper and the morning mail.

She heard him enter the house and go to the dining room, where the colonel sat eating his breakfast. Then his footsteps sounded through the wide hallway as he walked to the rear of the house.

At once an eager babble of tongues came to her ears. She caught the words “judge,” and “quickly settled” and knew they were talking about the trial.

She leaped from the bed and tottered down the hallway. The babble continued, but suddenly ceased as the colonel came in, closing the door after him.

“Hush, all of you. Remember that my daughter is not to know that Henry Cross has been found guilty.”

There was a wild cry above, a heavy fall, and instantly the household was in commotion.