"How is it that you are alone here?" he asked. "Does no one else know of this?"
She moved her head in assent.
"Yes; but they have all gone to hunt for the murderer. If only you had been looking from your window, you would have seen it all!"
He did not look as though he shared her regret. He was standing on the other side of the dead man, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed steadily upon the cold white face. He seemed to have forgotten her presence.
"An evil end to an evil life," he said slowly to himself, and then he added something which she did not hear.
"You knew him, then?"
He looked at her for a moment fixedly, and then down again into the dead man's face.
"I have heard of him abroad," he said. "Sir Geoffrey Kynaston was a man with a reputation."
"You will remember that he is dead," she said slowly, for the scorn in his words troubled her.
He bowed his head, and was silent. Watching him closely, she could see that he was far more deeply moved than appeared on the surface. His teeth were set together, and there was a curious faint flush of color in his livid cheeks. She followed his eyes, wondering. They were fixed, not upon the dead man's face, but on the dagger which lay buried in his heart, and the handle of which was still visible.