"In that case, Mrs. Darrow, I must apply to Major Dundas, as Mr. Barton's heir."
"Oh, I daresay you will," sneered Mrs. Darrow, "but there is no chance there; I know your tricks and your sly deceit. You think you'll catch him, but you shan't, not if I can help it. The county gaol—not the Manor House—is the proper place for young women of your stamp!"
"If you have nothing more to say I will go," said Miriam, keeping her temper wonderfully well under the woman's insults.
"But I have more to say. Don't be insolent, I tell you. I hold you in the hollow of my hand."
"What do you mean?" asked Miriam imperiously.
"Mean! you know well enough what I mean. You know you were in love with Gerald Arkel and tried your best to marry him; and as Hilda Marsh beat you and upset your little plans, you thought you would steal the will so that her husband should not get the property. Yes you did—and you are Mr. Barton's murderer—that's what I mean!"
"You must be mad!" gasped Miriam, thunder-struck. "I gave my evidence at the inquest as everyone else did; and the jury brought in a verdict that Mr. Barton had been murdered by some person unknown. You know what you say is a dastardly falsehood. I was in the drawing-room singing when Mr. Barton met his death; and Dicky saw the body half an hour before I did. I found the poor child in a fit, and rushed back to call you all. How dare you make such accusations against me—dare to say that I killed one of the few men who have been kind to me?"
"Oh, I daresay there are plenty of men who have been kind to you," scoffed Mrs. Darrow venomously. "We know all about that, Miss Crane—if Crane is your name, which I very much doubt. But I don't want your infamous London life dragged up here, thank you!"
"Mrs. Darrow," cried Miriam in a cold fury, "if you dare to slander me in this way I will bring you into Court to prove your charges."
"Do—do. It's what I wish. I have held my tongue so long for my dead uncle's sake, but no longer now, my young lady—no, I go straight to the inspector of police."