Dick took the chair Peggy pushed toward him, and reading the agonized question in Beatrice’s pleading eyes, he said briefly:
“The real murderer, Count de Smirnoff, has confessed.”
A cry of surprise broke from Mrs. Macallister and Peggy, but Beatrice’s feelings were too deep for words. She bowed her face in her hands, and only Gordon caught the fervid whisper: “God, I thank Thee,” while hot scalding tears trickled through her fingers. Regardless of the others’ presence, he threw himself on his knees beside her.
“My best beloved, can you ever forgive me for doubting you; I, who am most unworthy—”
Beatrice raised a radiant face. “Hush!” she said. “Do not let me hear you say such a thing again. I, too, am greatly to blame.”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Dick. “Neither of you have any cause for self-reproach. You were simply the victims of circumstances. But it strikes me that you two have played at cross-purposes long enough. If it isn’t too painful,” addressing Beatrice, “would you mind straightening out some of the kinks in the rope?”
“Gladly,” she answered. “Where shall I begin?”
“Suppose you start with the marriage ceremony,” suggested Dick, smiling covertly.
“What!” exclaimed Beatrice, astonished. “You know of our marriage?”
“Yes. As it happened, my brother performed the ceremony.”