Then, struck with a sudden recollection, he turned and snatched an evening paper from a pocket of his coat, which he had tossed on a chair. He had recalled certain leader lines which had caught his eye earlier in the evening, yet which he then had not had sufficient interest to follow.
Now he hurriedly opened the paper and read the story, or so much of it as enabled him to guess the truth.
It was the newspaper story of the girl found dead in Central Park that afternoon, with the mystery involving the sudden fatality, and the names of the murdered girl and her mistress, Violet Page.
A half-smothered oath of horror and dismay broke from Venner, after a moment.
It brought Cervera to his side, and she snatched the paper from him and read—the story of her own failure; the miscarriage of her own jealous and murderous design.
She suppressed the shriek of mingled disappointment and fury that rose to her twitching lips, then passionately cast the paper upon the table.
"Well, what do you make of it?" she demanded, glaring at Venner's colorless face.
"No need to ask," he replied, hoarsely. "You know what I make of it."
"You think I did it?"
"I know you did it!"