She nodded sadly in the affirmative.
“The combination of Dad and these people would, indeed, be a formidable one,” she said. “Ah! if he would only take my advice and end it all! He has sufficient to live upon comfortably. Why does he court disaster in this way? He has always been, so very good to me, ever since I was a tiny child, that I cannot help loving him.”
I did not reply. What could I say? I longed to speak frankly to her and take her out of that atmosphere of evil. Yet what could I do? How could I act?
“I have a suspicion that poor Mr Arnold was a friend of that woman,” I said a few moments later, as she stood against the table before me.
“Yes,” was her reply. “He was her friend and benefactor, I believe. He did all he could for her defence before the judge, but to no avail.”
“Somebody betrayed her into the hands of the police?”
“Dad told me so once. He believes it to have been her own husband, the man Earnshaw.”
I did not speak for a few moments. I was thinking of that strange letter which had threatened vengeance against the mysterious scholar, Mr Arnold. The latter had been accused of what he had not done, yet that very accusation had given me a clue to some very curious circumstances, and had forewarned me as to the true character of the wealthy widow of Ridgehill Manor.
“Has your father any ground for declaring the woman’s conviction to be due to Earnshaw?”
“Yes, I believe so; but he has never told any one, except myself.”