"I see, she also denies being on board," she said, quietly; "so you are both telling deliberate falsehoods; will you kindly explain this riddle to me?"
"That will be easy enough, my cousin," answered the Marchese, with a sneer; "I presume Monteith told you all about the death of Leopold Verschoyle?"
"Well?" she asked, turning a shade paler: though Heaven knows, poor thing, she was pale enough before.
"Well!" he echoed, mockingly; "don't you know that your sister was his wife, and, if it were known she had been on board, ugly questions might be asked?"
"I understand what you mean," said Carmela, clasping her hands, "you think that she--had something to do with his death."
"I did not say so."
"No; but you hinted as much."
"Then accept the hint I give, and deny that your sister was on board."
"What! deny my own words?"
"Certainly," he replied, coolly, "better than," significantly, "the other thing."