"It is—" a pause—"to see the room where your mother—Ah!" as he shrank a little, "I beg your pardon. I should not have asked."
"Yes, yes, you should. You shall visit at once. I am a coward about some things, I confess—this among others. Come."
They went. He took from a huge bunch he carried the key of that long-locked room. He flung it wide, and they stood together on the threshold.
It was all dark, the blinds closed, the curtains drawn, dark and deserted, as it had been since that fatal night. Nothing had been changed, absolutely nothing. There stood the baby bassinet, there the little table on which the knife had lain, there beneath the open window the chair in which Ethel, Lady Catheron, had slept her last long sleep. A hush that seemed like the hush of death lay over all.
Edith stood silent and grave—not speaking. She motioned him hastily to come away. He obeyed. Another moment, and they stood together under the blue bright sky.
"Oh!" Edith said, under her breath, "who did it?"
"Who indeed? And yet Lady Helena knows."
His face and tone were sombre. How dare they let her lie in her unavenged grave? A Catheron had done it beyond doubt, and to save the Catheron name and honor the murderer had been let go.
"Lady Helena knows!" repeated Edith; "it was that wicked brother and sister, then? How cruel—how cruel!"
"It was not the sister—I believe that. That it must have been the brother no doubt can exist."