"I tell you, you are unjust. At least, hear why Mrs. Barclay has come. She may have a message for us—perhaps from your father."
She laughed bitterly.
"You are very clever, Tristram. But I shan't believe her. I won't hear her——"
"You've got to," Sigrid interposed resolutely. "Mr. Meredith is dead. He has been murdered. I found him dying—and his last message was a warning to Tristram."
She had meant to cut short the ugly scene. There was no time to waste. One sentence was to save Anne the agony of a suspicion which seemed justified enough. But no relief came into the poor, passion-twisted features—only a more terrible change. Without a sound, Anne dropped back among her pillows. Her eyes were closed, the last atom of colour drained from her open lips.
Tristram bent over her, his hand on her pulse. The fear of that moment sickened him.
"Owen,—Owen——!"
The whispered name, warm with tenderness and grief, silenced them both. They could not look at each other. It was as though they had pried unwillingly into a secret which filled them with shame and a sense of tragic futility. She, too, had borne her burden—her share of their common error.
"Owen—Owen——!"
Sigrid touched Tristram's bowed shoulders. There was an odd diffidence in her touch, as though she had become afraid.