“What? You suspect foul play?” she cried.
I nodded in the affirmative.
“You believe that poor Mary was actually murdered?” she exclaimed, anxiously. “Have you found marks of violence, then?”
“No, I have found nothing. My opinion is formed upon a surmise.”
“What surmise?”
I hesitated whether to tell her all the facts that I had discovered, for I was disappointed and annoyed that she should still preserve a dogged silence, now that a reconciliation had been brought about.
“Well,” I answered, after a pause, “my suspicion of foul play is based upon logical conclusions. I have myself been witness of one most astonishing fact—namely, that she was in the habit of meeting a certain man clandestinely at night, and that their favourite walk was along the river bank.”
“What!” she cried, starting up in alarm, all the colour fading from her face. “You have actually seen them together?”
“I have not only seen them, but I have overheard their conversation,” I answered, surprised at the effect my words had produced upon her.
“Then you already know the truth!” she cried, in a wild voice that was almost a shriek. “Forgive me—forgive me, Ralph!” And throwing herself suddenly upon her knees she looked up into my face imploringly, her white hands clasped in an attitude of supplication, crying in a voice broken by emotion: “Forgive me, Ralph! Have compassion upon me!” and she burst into a flood of tears which no caress or tender effort of mine could stem.