"A most terrible thing," Edith said; "but one has only to read the papers, to learn such deeds of horror are done every day. Life is a terribly sensational story. You say it is shrouded in darkness, but the Chesholm Courier did not seem at all in the dark."
"You mean Inez Catheron. She was innocent."
"Indeed!"
"She was not guilty, except in this—she knew who was guilty, and concealed it. Of that, I have reason to be sure."
"Her brother, of course—the Juan Catheron of the papers?"
"Who is to tell? Even that is not certain. No," in answer to her look of surprise, "it is not certain. I am sure my aunt believes in his innocence."
"Then who—"
"Ah—who?" the baronet said mournfully, "who was the murderer? It may be that we will never know."
"You will know," Edith said decidedly. "I am sure of it. I am a firm believer in the truism that 'murder will out.' Sooner or later you will know."
She spoke with the calm conviction of prophecy. She looked back to shudder at her own words in the after-days.