"Claire, Colliver is here in London, or was but a week ago."
"Here!"
"Yes, Claire; and it was he that murdered Thomas Loveday."
"Murdered Thomas Loveday! I do not understand." She had turned a deathly white, and spread out her hands as if for support. "Tell me—"
"Yes, Claire," I said, as I stepped to her, and put my arm about her; "it is truth, as I stand here. Colliver, your mother's husband, foully murdered my innocent friend for the sake of that piece of gold; and more, Simon Colliver, for the sake of this same accursed token, murdered my father!"
"Your father!"
She shook off my arm, and stood facing me there, by Tom's grave, with a look of utter horror that froze my blood.
"Yes, my father; or stay, I am wrong. Though Colliver prompted, his was not the hand that did the deed. That he left to a poor wretch whom he afterwards slew himself—one Railton—John Railton."
"What!"
"Why, Claire, Claire! What is it? Speak!"