“I came to tell you, what I suppose may be told to any judge, in confidence and full reliance on his secrecy, that Abraham Dixon was not the murderer.” She stopped short, and choked a little.
The judge looked sharply at her.
“Then you know who was?” said he.
“Yes,” she replied, with a low, steady voice, looking him full in the face, with sad, solemn eyes.
The truth flashed into his mind. He shaded his face, and did not speak for a minute or two. Then he said, not looking up, a little hoarsely, “This, then, was the shame you told me of long ago?”
“Yes,” said she.
Both sat quite still; quite silent for some time. Through the silence a sharp, clear voice was heard speaking through the folding-doors.
“Take the kedgeree down, and tell the cook to keep it hot for the judge. It is so tiresome people coming on business here, as if the judge had not his proper hours for being at chambers.”
He got up hastily, and went into the dining-room; but he had audibly some difficulty in curbing his wife’s irritation.
When he came back, Ellinor said:
“I am afraid I ought not to have come here now.”
“Oh! it’s all nonsense!” said he, in a tone of
