"No, no," he gasped; "who said so—who said——?"
"You think this, John," continued Talbot Bulstrode; "and you do her the most grievous wrong that ever yet was done to woman; a more shameful wrong than I committed when I thought that Aurora Floyd had been guilty of some base intrigue."
"You don't know——" stammered John.
"I don't know! I know all, and foresaw trouble for you, before you saw the cloud that was in the sky. But I never dreamt of this. I thought the foolish country people would suspect your wife, as it always pleases people to try and fix a crime upon the person in whom that crime would be more particularly atrocious. I was prepared for this; but to think that you—you, John, who should have learned to know your wife by this time—to think that you should suspect the woman you have loved of a foul and treacherous murder!"
"How do we know that the—that the man was murdered?" cried John vehemently. "Who says that the deed was treacherously done? He may have goaded her beyond endurance, insulted her generous pride, stung her to the very quick, and in the madness of her passion—having that wretched pistol in her possession—she may——"
"Stop!" interrupted Talbot. "What pistol? you told me the weapon had not been found."
"It was found upon the night of our return."
"Yes; but why do you associate this weapon with Aurora? What do you mean by saying that the pistol was in her possession?"
"Because—O my God! Talbot, why do you wring these things from me?"
"For your own good, and for the justification of an innocent woman; so help me, Heaven!" answered Mr. Bulstrode. "Do not be afraid to be candid with me, John. Nothing would ever make me believe Aurora Mellish guilty of this crime."