"Perhaps not; but you can remember the death of your kinsman, Don Tomaso Crivelli?"
This time the Spaniard started as if an adder had stung him. The cold perspiration broke out upon his bronzed forehead, and every vestige of color fled alike from cheek and lips.
"I see you do remember," said Pauline Corsi. "You remember that will which was made on that night. The will which was witnessed by two men; one of them a seafaring man whose name I know not as yet; the other, William Bowen, then captain of a slaver. You remember the sick man's confession. You remember his dying prayer, that those dear to him should be protected by you; and lastly, Don Juan Moraquitos, you remember the draught mixed by Silas Craig, and which your wife's brother, Tomaso Crivelli, took from your hand, two hours before his death!"
"How could you have learned all this?" gasped the Spaniard.
"I know more than this!" replied Pauline Corsi. "When the faint gray of the wintry dawn was stealing through the half-open shutters of the sick chamber, Tomaso Crivelli lifted himself from his pillow in the last agonies of death, and uttered an accusation—"
"Hold! hold, woman, I entreat!" cried the Spaniard, "you know all! How you have acquired that knowledge, save through some diabolical agency, I know not; for the door of the chamber was secured by a lock not easily tampered with, and those within were not the men to betray secrets. But, no matter, you know all! Why have you kept silence for thirteen years?"
"We women are tacticians, Don Juan. I had a motive for my silence!"
"And you speak now—?"
"Because I think it is time to speak."
Don Juan paced the apartment backward and forward with folded arms, and his head bent upon his breast. Presently pausing before Pauline Corsi's embroidery frame, he said in a hoarse whisper: