"Ah, but the lace? What of the piece of blood-stained lace?" demanded Furneaux.
"I wished to make sure, monsieur," was the astounding reply. "Had she not been dead, but merely wounded, I—Eh, bien! I tore her dress open, in order to feel if her heart was beating, and the bit of lace remained in my hand. I was so excited that I hardly knew what I was doing. I took it away. Afterwards, when Antonio said that the police were cooling in their chase of Osborne, I gave it to him; he told me he could use it to good effect."
"Phew!" breathed Winter, "you're a pretty lot of cutthroats, I must say. Why did you keep the daggers and the diary, sweet maid?"
"The knife that rid us of a traitress was sacred. I thought the diary might be useful to the—to our friends."
"Yet you gave it to Mr. Clarke without any demur?"
The girl shot a look at Clarke in which fright was mingled with hatred.
"He—he—I was afraid of him," she stammered.
Winter opened the door.
"There is your brother," he said. "Be off, both of you. Take my advice and leave England to-night."
They went forth, hand in hand, in no wise cast down by the loathing they had inspired. Clarke looked far more miserable than they, for by their going he had lost the prize of his life.