“Do you not know that she had come between me and the man I loved; that she had taken my love’s heart from me and made it her own?—did you not know that, and is it not motive sufficient?”
“It is,” he replied, still more sadly, “and yet, Hermione, I cannot believe it was you. My reason recoils from anything so monstrous.”
“It is my fault,” she said, “and I am tired of my life. I am weary even unto death.”
“Hermione,” he said, “I had rather died than have made this discovery.”
“There is an old saying, ‘Murder will out.’” she replied, with the dreariest and most ghastly smile.
“It is like some horrible dream to me,” he cried. “I would to Heaven that I could wake.”
“You will never wake from that,” she replied; and then deep silence fell over them again.
Suddenly he went over to her chair.
“Hermione,” he said, “my nerves fail me. I cannot hurt you. Save yourself if you can. When I went away from you just now I sent a telegram to Scotland Yard to say the murderer was found.”
“The detectives will come down here, then?” she said, wearily.