“If we only had liberty to go home again,” sighed Sybil, “then we should have all things. But there; indeed I will not backslide into weak complaints again,” she added, compunctuously.
“Modify your grief, dear Sybil, but do not attempt entirely to suppress it. Nature is not to be so restrained,” said Lyon Berners, kindly.
There was silence between them for a little while, during which Sybil still sat down upon the flagstones, with her elbows resting on her knees, and her head bowed upon the palms of her hands; and Lyon stood up near her with an attitude and expression of grave and sad reflection and self-control.
At length Sybil spoke:
“Oh, Lyon! who could have murdered that poor woman, and brought us into such a horrible position?”
“My theory of the tragedy is this, dear Sybil: that some robber, during the confusion of the fancy ball, found an opportunity of entering and concealing himself in Mrs. Blondelle’s room; that his first purpose might have been simple robbery, but that, being discovered by Mrs. Blondelle, and being alarmed lest her shrieks should bring the house upon him and occasion his capture, he impulsively sought to stop her cries by death; and then that, hearing your swift approach down the stairs leading into her room, he made his escape through the window.”
“But then the windows were all found, as they had been left, fastened,” objected Sybil.
“But, dearest, you must remember that these windows, having spring bolts, may be fastened by being pushed to from the outside. It is quite possible for a robber, escaping through them, to close them in this manner to conceal his flight.”
“That must have been the case in this instance. Everybody must see now that that was the manner in which the miscreant escaped. Oh, Lyon! I think we were wrong to have left home.”
“No, dear Sybil, we were not. Our only hope is in the discovery of the real murderer, and that may be a work of time; meanwhile we wish to be free, even at the price of being called fugitives from justice.”