“Hush! denials are vain! By your own lips you stand convicted of your guilt. Almost as soon as I entered my mother’s room there came to me a fear that some clew might have been left at this spot by which the world might find out that Robert Lacy met his death at Verelands. With a shrinking from the notoriety such knowledge would entail on the De Veres, I hurriedly left the room and hastened here. You know the rest.”
“You spyed upon me! You did not make your presence known!” she muttered, hoarsely.
“I was dazed with wonder and with horror. My feet refused to move, and my tongue grew stiff as I realized the awful truth. I seemed at first to be turned to stone by the horror of my discovery,” he answered, in a slow, troubled voice, and in a minute he added: “Some one may come upon us here. We will go back to the house, Camille. I must speak to you in private.”
She pulled the small lace veil down over her face and followed him in dead silence to the beautiful mansion among the trees.
He went to the library: she followed in dumb misery and despair. The door was locked, and he pushed forward an easy-chair for her to sit down. She sunk into it, glad to rest, for her limbs were trembling and weak.
“Now tell me, Camille,” he said, sternly, “what was Robert Lacy to you that you should take his life?”
She attempted to deny the accusation, but he would not permit her to do so.
“I heard you confess your guilt when you thought yourself alone,” he said. “You said that if he would have made terms for the keeping a secret, you would have spared him, but that there was no other way.”
She sat silent and sullen, feeling her doom sealed.
“Shall I tell you what my suspicions are, Camille?” he asked, after a moment’s pause.