“Why not later on then?” pursued Tom. “She was the last person to enter the house—everyone else was in bed—perhaps the two women met and continued their quarrel. You remember Wilkins overheard Beatrice threaten her stepmother earlier in the evening. Stronger than most of her sex, blind hatred may have nerved Beatrice’s arm and eye to strike the fatal blow.”
“I won’t believe it!” declared Dick, fiercely. “I won’t! I stick to it that Alfred Clark is the criminal.”
“The secretary?” asked Tom, much astonished.
“Yes. He was Mrs. Trevor’s old lover, too....”
“Another! Apparently the woods were full of them,” interpolated Tom.
“Mrs. Trevor was probably jealous of his attentions to Beatrice, and threatened to disclose some disgraceful secret of his past. Clark, to silence her, killed her, the cold-blooded fish. He would not scruple to throw suspicion on Beatrice, particularly as, being married to Gordon, she must have rejected his suit.”
“For all that, Dick,” said Tom, obstinately, “if Beatrice Trevor ever comes to trial for this crime, you will have great difficulty in convincing twelve good men and true that she is innocent.”
“I’ll do it!” Dick’s eyes snapped with determination.
“How?”
“By proving that that black-hearted scoundrel Clark is guilty.”