"I know that a stiletto purchased in Florence by your late husband hung on the library wall of Berwin Manor. I know that it is gone!"
"Yes! yes!" said Lydia, moistening her white, dry lips, "it is gone; but I do not know who took it."
"The person who killed your husband."
"I feared as much," she muttered, sitting down again. "Do you know the name of the person?"
"As well as you do yourself. The name is Lydia Vrain!"
"I!" She threw herself back on the chair with a look of profound astonishment on her colourless face. "Mr. Denzil," she stammered, "is—is this—is this a jest?"
"You will not find it so, Mrs. Vrain."
The little woman clutched the arms of her chair and leaned forward with her face no longer pale, but red with rage and indignation. "If you are a gentleman, Mr. Denzil, I guess you won't keep me hanging on like this. Let us get level. Do you say I killed Mark?"
"Yes, I do!" said Lucian defiantly. "I am sure of it."