“There’s my proof,” said Marshall. “Miss Monk, this amiable bridegroom of yours denies being concerned in harming Mr. Charles Brinkley. Is he telling the truth?”
Matt’s face darkened, and she looked at Monk with eyes of cordial detestation.
“No,” she said, “he’s lying!”
“Matt,” cried Monk fiercely, “take care!”
“He’s lying,” she repeated, not heeding him. “I see him do it with my own two eyes, and I see William Jones helping him and looking on. They thought that no one was nigh, but I was. I was hiding behind them sacks and barrels in the cave!”
Monk now felt that the game was almost up, for he was beset on every side, and the very ground seemed opening under his feet. The wretched Jones, in a state bordering on frenzy, remained on his knees wailing over his own ruin. The two strangers, Lightwood and Marshall, looked on as calm but interested spectators. Matt, having delivered her home-thrust of accusation, stood and gazed into Monk’s face with cool defiance, “It is a plot!” Monk cried, presently, “an infamous plot to ruin me! You have-been tampering, I see, with this wild girl, whom you foolishly suppose kin to me by blood. Arrest me, if you please—I shall not take the trouble to resist, for I am perfectly innocent in this matter.”
He added, while they looked at one another as if somewhat puzzled—
“As to the girl’s relationship with my dead cousin, the very idea is absurd. Where are the proofs of her birthright?”
“Here,” said a quiet voice.