“Revenge—revenge upon the man who tempted his wife away from him.”
“The cur who ill-used and neglected his wife—whose conduct drove her from her wretched home, and justified her abandonment of him—was never man enough to conceive such a revenge, or to hate with such a hatred. However, in this case we need not enter upon the question of motive. There is one reason why Tom Darcy cannot be suspected of any part in Sir Godfrey’s murder. He died nine years ago, and was buried at my expense in Norwood Cemetery.”
“Great God! then who could have fired that pistol?”
“The answer to that question is most likely here,” replied Lord Cheriton quietly, as he tore open the envelope of Mrs. Porter’s letter.
The letter was brief but comprehensive, and all-sufficing.
“You know now who killed your cherished daughter’s husband. If she is like me she will carry her sorrow to the grave. If she is like me all her days will be darkened by cruel memories. Your broken promise blighted my life. I have blighted her life—an eye for an eye. I told you three and twenty years ago that a day would come when you would be sorry for having abandoned me. I think that day has come.
“Evelyn Darcy.”
Lord Cheriton handed the letter to his kinsman without a word.
“Since you know so much of my history you may as well know all,” he said; “so know the thorny pillow which a man makes for himself when he sacrifices the best years of his life to an illicit love.”
Theodore read those ghastly lines in silence. The signature told all.