“Why did he do that?” asked Bab.
“Because, Bab,” replied Stephen, “they both loved a girl, and the girl’s name was Barbara Thurston. She must have been your great-great-aunt. Did you ever hear of her?”
“If I ever did, I have forgotten,” answered Bab. “You see, after father’s death, we had no way to learn much about his family and mother knew very little, I suppose.”
“Well, Barbara Thurston was engaged to marry my great-uncle. They were all staying at the same hotel, somewhere in the Italian lake country—Barbara and her mother and my great-uncle Stephen and his friend. One day the friend persuaded Barbara to go out rowing with him. There was a storm and the boat upset, and Barbara was drowned. It was said that the friend and the boatman swam ashore and left her, but that is hard to believe. Anyway, when my uncle got the news, something snapped in his brain and he killed the boatman with an oar. The friend made his escape and the flight proved to the authorities that he had committed the crime. The Ten Eycks all knew that Uncle Stephen had done it, but it seemed of little use, I suppose, to tell the truth, because the slayer, Uncle Stephen, had gone clean crazy, and his friend could not be found. They have never seen each other since, until——”
Stephen paused.
“Until when, Stephen?”
“Until to-night, Barbara. Can you guess who the friend is?”
“The hermit?” asked Barbara, with growing excitement.
“Yes,” replied Stephen; “the poor old hermit who has lived near his friend all these years without ever letting anybody know.”
“And your uncle has been living in the right wing ever since?” asked Bab.