"Ah, you know that much. Yes! Louisa Sinclair is my rival! Ten years ago she came back to England and wanted Francis to marry her. I fell ill—I became paralyzed. He forgot me, he forgot my love, and she became his wife. Oh, how I hate her! I hate him. It was on that account that I wrote to you, Claude, to reveal all."
"You then acted out of revenge!"
"Yes, I did!" said Mrs. Bezel sullenly. "Look at me, a wreck; look at her, his wife, rich and handsome and healthy."
"Not healthy, poor soul," said Claude. "She is ill with the smallpox."
"With the smallpox," echoed Mrs. Bezel joyfully. "I'm glad of it! I'm glad of it! Her beauty will depart, as mine has done. Then Francis may come back to me."
"You love him still?" asked Captain Larcher, in wonderment.
"Too well to ruin him. You want me to accuse him of the crime, but I tell you he is innocent; he knows nothing."
"He was in the garden alone on that night. None other but he——"
"He was not alone," cried Mrs. Bezel sharply. "Louisa Sinclair was with him. Yes, she followed him from the ball because she was jealous of me. In my flight I passed her at the gate. She had a cloak over her dress, but I saw that it was the costume of Mary, Queen of Scots."
"And you knew her by that?"