"Well, this man or woman—most probably it was a woman—made up a very pretty tale, which was printed in The Firefly."
"A scandalous paper," said Ware, annoyed. "What did it say?"
"That you were in love with Anne, that you were engaged to Miss Kent, and that to gain you as her husband Anne killed the girl."
"It's a foul lie. I'll horsewhip the editor and make him put in an apology."
"I shouldn't do that if I were you, Mr. Ware," said the old lady dryly. "Better let sleeping dogs lie. I don't believe the whole story myself—only part of it."
"What part, Mrs. Cairns?"
"That part which says you love Anne. I can see it in your face."
"If I can trust you——"
"Certainly you can. Anne is like my own child. I believe her guiltless of this terrible crime, and I would do anything to see her righted. She did not kill the girl."
"No, I believe the girl was killed by a nameless man who came to Rickwell from some firm of solicitors. I don't know why he murdered the poor child, no more than I can understand why Anne should have helped him to escape."