“And is that really the true story of the Colonel’s death?” I asked blankly.
“Yes,” she answered, her chin upon her breast. “You may denounce me. I am a murderess—a murderess?”
There was a long and awkward pause.
“And can you tell us nothing of our mysterious union and its motive?” I asked her.
“Nothing,” she responded, shaking her head. “I would tell you all, if I knew, for you, like myself, have fallen victims in the hands of Tattersett and Graham—only they themselves know the truth. After the tragedy at Whitton I traced Beryl Wynd to Gloucester Square, and, still believing her to have supplanted me in my husband’s affections, called there in the guise of a dressmaker, and while your wife was absent from the room managed to write a reply to a fictitious message I had brought her from Graham. I placed the liquid upon the porcelain handle of the door on the inside, so that a person on entering would experience no ill effect, but on pulling open the door to leave would receive the full strength of the deadly vayana. This again proved ineffectual; therefore ascertaining that Graham intended to visit Atworth, I entered there and placed the terrible alkaloid on certain objects in your wife’s room—upon her waist-belt, and in the room that had been occupied by him on his previous visit, but which proved to be then occupied by yourself.”
“And that accounts for the mysterious attacks which we both experienced!” I observed, amazed at her confession.
“Yes,” she replied; “I intended to commit murder. I was unaware that Beryl was your wife, and I have committed an error which I shall regret through all my life, I can only ask your forgiveness—if you really can forgive.”
“I have not yet learnt the whole facts—the motive of our marriage,” I answered. “Can you direct us to either of the men?”
She paused. Then at last answered, “Graham, or the man you know as Ashwicke, is here in this house; he called upon me by appointment this afternoon. If you so desire, I will tell my servant to ask him in.”
“But before doing so,” cried Beryl, excitedly, “let me first explain my own position! I, too, am not altogether blameless. The story of my parentage, as I have given it to you, Richard, is a fictitious one. I never knew my parents. My earliest recollections were of the Convent of the Sacré Coeur at Brunoy, near Paris, where I spent fourteen years, having as companion, during the latter seven years, Nora Findlay, the daughter of a Scotch ironmaster. Of my own parents the Sisters declared they knew nothing, and as I grew up they constantly tried to persuade me to take the veil. Nora, my best friend, left the convent, returned to England, and two years afterwards married Sir Henry, whereupon she generously offered me a place in her house as companion. She is no relation, but, knowing my susceptibilities, and in order that I should not be looked upon as a paid companion, she gave out that we were cousins—hence I was accepted as such everywhere.