"Yes, I am mad--mad, to believe anything against you, who are as pure as an angel. I'm only a poor devil who loves you, and want you to tell me all you know about this murder, so that I can save you."
"Save me--murder!"
She reeled a little, and caught hold of the table for support.
"Look! look!" cried Ronald, pulling out his pocket-book with the fatal paper, which he had brought on purpose; "look here"--spreading it out--"your writing--your writing."
Carmela glanced at it, and a film came over her eyes.
"Yes, it's my writing--seven--seven years ago."
"Then the stiletto by which he was killed, you have described it. You were on board; you recognised him."
"I did not." She spoke the words firmly. "No, until you told me the other day who the murdered man was, I had no more idea than you had at Malta that Lionel Ventin was Leopold Verschoyle. I did write that note when I was mad with the treatment I had received. I was only a girl, and acted foolishly, as girls will. I did have such a stiletto, but I have not seen it for years. I gave it to my cousin Vassalla about five years ago."
"Vassalla!" Ronald looked up suddenly. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, he took a fancy to it, and I presented it to him. Did you believe me guilty?" suddenly.