‘Randolph Villiers.’
Vandeloup shrugged his shoulders.
‘Who can prove it?’ he asked, contemptuously.
‘I can!’
‘You,’ with a sneer, ‘a murderess?’
‘Who can prove I am a murderess?’ she cried, wildly.
‘I can,’ he answered, with an ugly look; ‘and I will if you don’t keep a quiet tongue.’
‘I will keep quiet no longer,’ boldly rising and facing Vandeloup, with her hands clenched at her sides; ‘I have tried to shield you faithfully through all your wickedness, but now that you accuse me of committing a crime, which accusation you know is false, I accuse you, Gaston Vandeloup, and your accomplice, yonder,’ wheeling round and pointing to Pierre, who shrank away, ‘of murdering Randolph Villiers, at the Black Hill, Ballarat, for the sake of a nugget of gold he carried.’
Vandeloup looked at her disdainfully.
‘You are mad,’ he said, in a cold voice; ‘this is the raving of a lunatic; there is no proof of what you say; it was proved conclusively that myself and Pierre were asleep at our hotel while M. Villiers was with Jarper at two o’clock in the morning.’