"But 'twas no such thing," flashed Ruth. "The coward lied, Lawrence—lied to you. I saw it all," she went on shudderingly, "from the hole in the panel there. And he—that man Rumsey—struck him unawares. Think of it, Lawrence; an unarmed man!"
"Nay, hardly that," said Lee, extricating the poignard from Goodenough's fingers, and examining it by the light of Ruth's lamp. "For he must have struck Rumsey. See, there is blood upon this. It is stained to the very hilt."
"And did not Rumsey himself tell you that he had been barely so much as scratched?" she said. "Lawrence, that witnesses against him. These very words, that he intended to screen his guilt, would tell the truth against him, even if there were no tongue to tell what eye has seen."
"No, Ruth," said Lee, slowly shaking his head, and gazing distressfully into the fiery brilliancy of her eyes and on her pale face, flushed on either cheek with two spots of burning red. "You did not see it. You must have been dreaming, child. It was some hideous nightmare. Such a double-dyed treacherous villain as that, no man could be. No, Ruth, no. Say he did not do it," he added imploringly.
Bad company.
But she shook her head silently.
"It is not possible," he went on. "He—Ruth—that man and I have touched hands, in—well, in token of good fellowship."
"And God forgive you then, Lawrence," she replied. "As indeed I think he will. Because you do not know all. I am sure you do not know— But hush!" she went on, interrupting herself; "hush, we must not be found here. My father will be back—"
"Ay, but not yet awhile. I left them all deep in—in their conversation, in the octagon vault."
"And did not their conversation interest you, Lawrence?" demanded she, gazing keenly into his face.