"How did you know about the confession?"
"That pig-man told me."
"Bawdsey? Why did he tell you?"
"Pschutt!" said Lola, contemptuously. "He loves me so, I can twist and twist him so," she made a rapid motion with her fingers. "We did talk of the death of your fathers. I lamented that my poor mother did loves your fathers unhappily, as I did love you. And I was enraged to think that your fathers had died. I did ask Bawdsey who made the stab--gave the death?--eh, it is, so I asked," she added, nodding. "He could not say, but he declares that Mrs.--what you call her--eh, but my friend, Mrs.----"
"Mrs. Jersey. Bawdsey declared that she knew?" Lola nodded. "It was so," she assented. "Mrs.--what you call that fat ladys--she write out all she know,--of your father's death and of his marriages. I say to myself that I would get that confession and learn where the marriage was made. Then I would burn the book that no one might learn. After I would say to you, that I could tell who killed your father if you made me madame your wife."
"That's a very pretty plot," said Brendon, not knowing whether to be angry with her wrong-doing or touched by a love that to gain him would not hesitate to commit a crime. "So far you have carried it out. You have the confession----"
Lola put her hand on her breast. "He is here," she said, nodding. "I carries him always--always!"
"Give it to me, Lola."
Her eyes opened in wide alarm. "Ah, no, you will not ask me. I keep him to myself all."
George saw that the moment was not propitious. But he was determined to get the confession before he left her. However, he begged her to continue her story. "How did you know the house?" he asked.