came into my room, pale-faced, with her mouth set, and an ugly glint in her eyes.
"Lord Michelcombe died an hour ago," she said, in a cold, calm voice, "and before he died he told me the infamous and horrible plot between you and him. How God allows such a man as you to remain on this earth, is a wonder to me. That such a cold-blooded, heartless, wicked villain could exist, I have never imagined."
"You are going a little too far, Miss Cardew," said I. "May I ask you to what you refer?"
"To what! Oh, if I were a man, and could thrash you until you screamed for mercy—and then let you die the death you brought on that poor little woman."
"You make assertions which you are quite unable to substantiate," I answered. "I beg you to be careful in what you are saying about me."
"You blind fool!" she half shouted at me. "You think I don't know—I know everything. Little did you think that I, too, saw the tramp at the village, and his wrist also."
This was the worst blow of all. Here was the connecting evidence which could hang me. What miserable luck!
