"But reasonable," said the reporter. "Did the poor girl have a sweetheart?"
Words which Mr. Melladew had spoken on the previous night recurred to me here. "There are so many scoundrels in the world ready with honeyed words to turn a girl's head; and it hurts me to think that they have their little secrets which they don't ask us to share." Did not this point to a secret which was hidden from her parents? I said nothing of this to the reporter, but answered that I was not aware that the poor girl had a sweetheart.
"Some one must have been in love with her," said the reporter.
"Many, perhaps," I rejoined; "but not one courted her openly, I believe--that is, to her parents' knowledge."
"That counts for very little. She was a beautiful girl."
"How?" I exclaimed. "Have you seen her?"
"I saw her this morning," he answered gravely, "within the last two hours. She looked like an angel."
"Was there no trace of suffering in her face?" I asked wistfully.
"None. She was stabbed to the heart--only one, sharp, swift, devilish blow, and death must have been instantaneous. To my unprofessional eye it almost seems as if she must have died in sleep--in happy sleep."
"That, at least, is merciful. Hush!"