"I believe he had, but I did not see it. Afterwards he took the stiletto back to the churchyard and pretended to find it, so that Anne might be accused. Denham never suspected Morley of the crime. Why, I don't know, as any one who knew what I have told you about his offers to Denham and Dane must have guessed that Morley was guilty."
"How did you learn all this?" asked Giles, glancing at the confession which was in Morley's own handwriting.
"At various times. I did not suspect him at first. But one thing led to another and I watched him. I got at his papers and discovered all about the Scarlet Cross, and——"
"Wait, Mrs. Morley—I mean Warton. Did Morley write that anonymous letter which accused Anne?"
"Yes. He did so, in case it was necessary to kill Daisy. He hoped by hinting beforehand that Anne would be accused. It was Anne's foolish speech to Daisy, saying she would kill her, that gave him the idea. But she meant nothing by it. It was only a few hot words. However, Morley used them to his own end. Well, Mr. Ware, I found out about the thieving gang, and then learned for the first time the kind of man I had married. My love died out of my heart at once. I took to thinking how I could get away from him. He used to mutter in his sleep, having an uneasy conscience."
"I should think he was too strong a man to have a conscience."
"Well, he muttered in his sleep at all events. From what he said I discovered that he had something to do with the death of Daisy. I accused him, and told him that I knew all about his Scarlet Cross wickedness. He denied the truth of this at first. Afterwards, little by little, I got the truth out of him. I then made him write out that confession and sign it, so that I could save Anne should she be caught. I promised for the sake of my own name and my children not to use the confession unless Anne was taken. That is why Morley ran away with Anne. He fancied that she would continue to bear the blame, and also"—here Mrs. Wharton hesitated and glanced at Giles—"I fancy that Oliver was in love with Miss Denham."
"The scoundrel!" cried Giles furiously.
Mrs. Wharton—as she now called herself—laughed coldly and rose to depart. "I don't think it matters much now," she said. "Anne was not drowned also, was she?"
"No," replied Ware, shuddering; "she is in London, and I hope shortly to make her my wife."