"What, Janet! you don't want me to find out who killed your uncle!"
"Oh, no, no!" and her voice rang out in agonized entreaty; "please don't, Otis; please don't try to find out who did it!"
"But then, dear, how can you be freed from suspicion? and I want to tell you, Janet, I want to tell you now, while I hold you in my arms,—I want to tell you in the same breath that I tell you of my love,—that you will be accused of this crime, unless the real criminal is discovered."
"How do you know I'm not the real criminal?"
"I know it for two reasons. First, because I love you, and I'm telling you so; and second, because you love me, and——"
"I'm not telling you so," she interrupted, and a look of pain came into her dear eyes as she tried to resist my embrace.
"You don't have to tell me, dear," I said, quietly, "I know it. But you must tell me who it is that you are trying to shield by your strange ways and words. Is it Leroy? It can't be Charlotte."
"I'm not shielding anybody," she cried out; "the jury people proved that I must have killed Uncle Robert myself, and so, you see, I must have done so."
"Now you're talking childishly," I said, as I soothed her, gently; "of course you didn't kill him, darling; but you do know more about it than you have yet told, and you must tell me, because I'm going to save you from any further unpleasantness. I wish I could understand you, you bewitching mystery! You are surely shielding some one. It can't be that absurd J. S. I hardly think it can be the man of the handkerchief; oh, but I haven't told you about that yet. It can't be George,—because he has a perfect alibi."
"I suppose if it were not for that alibi, George might be suspected," said Janet slowly.