She shivered through the whole of her delicate frame, and a low murmur came from her throat:
"You have seen the diary—it was Monsieur Furneaux."
Oddly enough, despite his own black conviction, this was not what Winter expected to hear.
He started, and said sharply:
"Oh, you are stupid. Why are you saying things that you know nothing of?"
"May Heaven forgive me for accusing anyone," she sobbed hoarsely. "But it was not anybody else. It could not be. You have seen the diary—it was Mr. Furneaux, or it was Mr. Osborne."
"Ah, two accusations now," cried Winter. "Furneaux or Osborne! You are trying to shield someone? What motive could Mr. Furneaux, or Mr. Osborne, have for such an act?"
"Was not Mr. Osborne her lover? And was not Mr. Furneaux her—husband?"
"Her——!"
In that awesome moment Winter hardly realized what he said. Half starting out of his chair, he glared in stupor at the shrinking figure on the bed, while every drop of blood fled away from his own face.