I felt assured, from the feigned flippancy of her words, that she held knowledge of the strange secret.
“It was the main cause,” I said. “You concealed the truth from me, and lived in that man’s house after he had married Mary.”
“I had a reason for doing so,” she exclaimed, in a quiet voice. “I did not live there by preference.”
“You were surely not forced to do so.”
“No; I was not forced. It was a duty.” Then, after a pause, she covered her face with her hands and suddenly burst into tears, crying, “Ah, Ralph! If you could know all—all that I have suffered, you would not think ill of me! Appearances have been against me, that I know quite well. The discovery of that letter must have convinced you that I was a schemer and unworthy, and the fact that I lived beneath the roof of the man who had cast me off added colour to the theory that I had conceived some deep plot. Probably,” she went on, speaking between her sobs, “probably you even suspected me of having had a hand in the terrible crime. Tell me frankly,” she asked, gripping my arm, and looking up into my face. “Did you ever suspect me of being the assassin?”
I paused. What could I reply? Surely it was best to be open and straightforward. So I told her that I had not been alone in the suspicion, and that Ambler Jevons had shared it with me.
“Ah! that accounts for his marvellous ingenuity in watching me. For weeks past he has seemed to be constantly near me, making inquiries regarding my movements wherever I went. You both suspected me. But is it necessary that I should assert my innocence of such a deed?” she asked. “Are you not now convinced that it was not my hand that struck down old Mr. Courtenay?”
“Forgive me,” I urged. “The suspicion was based upon ill-formed conclusions, and was heightened by your own peculiar conduct after the tragedy.”
“That my conduct was strange was surely natural. The discovery was quite as appalling to me as to you; and, knowing that somewhere among the dead man’s papers my letters were preserved, I dreaded lest they should fall into the hands of the police and thereby connect me with the crime. It was fear that my final letter should be discovered that gave my actions the appearance of guilt.”
I took both her hands in mine, and fixing my gaze straight into those dear eyes wherein the love-look shone—that look by which a man is able to read a woman’s heart—I asked her a question.