“Talk reasonably, Hermione; then I may understand you.”
She went to the table where the box containing that terrible evidence lay. She opened it and took from it a long, slender dagger, with its rusty stain.
“You are right,” she said, in a low, dreary voice. “That was the instrument with which the deed was done, and this belonged to me.”
“To you!” he cried. “What do you mean, Hermione?”
“It was given to me years ago by my cousin, who had been traveling in Greece. God grant that I may not go mad. He gave it to me one summer evening like this. My mother said it was a foolish present. My father bade me lock it away, but my cousin told me it was a great curiosity; that in ancient times the Grecian ladies wore such deadly toys fastened to their girdles.”
“Why do you tell me this now?” he asked.
She bent down and whispered something to him that made his face grow pale with horror, while he sprang from her as though the air she breathed and the words she spoke were poison.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
HOW WILL IT END?
“You are mad, Hermione,” cried Kenelm Eyrle. “You cannot mean it; it is not true.”
“It is true,” she replied; “that dagger was mine, and I—hear me, Kenelm Eyrle—I confess it, I did the deed. I, and I alone, am guilty!”