"A spy--for what--on whom?"
"For murder--on you."
Mrs. Verschoyle grew deathly pale, she clenched her hands, and her two black eyes glared like burning coals at her cousin.
"Bah!" she said, at length, making a snatch at one of her gloves; "this is a child's story."
"No, upon my honour, it's not. I don't know for certain, but I could swear this man is a spy. Why should he go out to Valletta, lodge at the same house as you, and tell you this about me? Because he wanted you to come to England--because he is employed by an Australian devil called Monteith to hunt you down, and accuse you of the murder of your husband, Leopold Verschoyle."
Vassalla arose to his feet while speaking, and went over to the woman, who cowered in her chair like a savage beast, subdued for the moment, by a master's eye.
"It's a lie--a lie!" she hissed, tearing her glove, viciously; "who can prove I was on board?"
"Carmela."
"Carmela?" she bounded to her feet, her face working with fury; "she would not dare!"
"She has done so, and told Monteith."