“Dr. Watkins, beware how you charge an innocent girl with so heinous a crime.”
“Mr. Montrose, I see that you are a partizan of Miss Leaton’s, but I have made no charge which I am not able to prove before the coroner’s inquest, and which their verdict will not soon confirm.”
“Does this most innocent and unhappy girl know of what she is accused?”
“She knows her crimes, and doubtless she has reason to suspect that we know them also.”
“Do not say ‘we know them,’ doctor. I do not know of any crime of hers; on the contrary, I know in my own secret consciousness that she is most innocent of all crime, and even of all wrong; and you do not know it; you only suspect it, and in that suspicion you wrong one of the most excellent young creatures that ever lived.”
“Mr. Montrose, you are blinded by partiality; but the veil will soon be torn from your eyes.”
“It is you who are blinded by some prejudice when you accuse a young and lovely girl of a tissue of crimes that would make the blood of a Borgia run cold with horror!” said the young man, with a shudder.
“We shall see; a few hours will decide between us;” replied the doctor, grimly.
“Where is the unhappy girl now?” inquired Malcolm Montrose.
“Where she must remain for the present: in the death-chamber of Lady Leaton, which is now in the charge of the police. And now, Mr. Montrose; the coroner awaits us in the crimson drawing-room,” said the physician, leading the way thither.