“Then it will never be,” he said despairingly.
“Let me judge,” she whispered. And he told her all.
“But—but I don’t quite understand,” she faltered; “you think, then—oh, it is too horrible—you think, then, he had killed poor Mr Brettison, his friend?”
“Yes,” said Guest slowly and thoughtfully. “It must have been that. I cannot see a doubt.”
“Ah!”
They started to their feet at the piteous sigh which came from the back drawing room, and it was followed by a heavy fall.
Myra had entered in time enough to hear the terrible charge, and for her life seemed to be at an end.
Meanwhile Stratton had stood motionless, gazing down into the dark pit formed by the staircase, with the light of the lamp he held shining full on his haggard face, made more painful by the smile which contracted the lower parts of his countenance, till the last echo of his friend’s steps died out, when he turned slowly and walked into his room, closing and fastening both doors.
Then his whole manner changed.