"They have been nothing but my curses. It was through Herbert that she, that wicked foreign woman, murdered Anthony."
Did he know of that? How had the knowledge come to him! William had not betrayed it, except to Mr. Ashley and Henry. And they had buried the dreadful secret down deep in the archives of their breasts. Mr. Dare's next words disclosed the puzzle.
"She died, that woman. And she wrote to Herbert on her death-bed and made a confession. He sent a part of it on here, lest, I suppose, we might doubt him still. But his conduct led to it. It is dreadful to have such sons as mine!"
His stick fell to the ground. Mr. Ashley held him, while William picked it up. He was gasping for breath.
"You are not well," cried Mr. Ashley.
"No; I think I am going. One can't stand these repeated shocks. Did I see Edgar Halliburton here? I thought he was dead. Is he come for his money?" he continued in a shivering whisper. "We acted according to the will, sir: according to the will, tell him. He can see it in Doctors' Commons. He can't proceed against us; he has no proof. Let him go and look at the will."
"We had better leave him, William," murmured Mr. Ashley. "Our presence only excites him."
In the opposite room sat Mrs. Dare. Adelaide passed out of it as they entered. Never before had they remarked how sadly worn and faded she looked. Her later life had been spent in pining after the chance of greatness she had lost, in missing Viscount Hawkesley. Irrevocably lost to her; for the daughter of a neighbouring earl now called him husband. They sat down by Mrs. Dare, but could only condole with her: nothing but the most irretrievable ruin was around.
"We shall be turned from here," she wailed. "How are we to find a home—to earn a living?"
"Your daughters must do something to assist you," replied Mr. Ashley. "Teaching, or——"