Were those words an admission of her guilt?
Was it by her hand, as that woman had insinuated, the unknown girl's life had been taken?
I recollected the nature of the wound, as revealed by the medical evidence, and I recalled that knife which was lying upon the table in the drawing-room above.
Why did Phrida so carefully conceal from me the exact truth concerning her friendship with the man I had trusted? What secret power did he exercise over her? And why did she fear to reveal anything to me—even though I had assured her that my confidence in her remained unshaken.
Was not guilt written upon that hard, white face?
I stood staring out of the window in blank indecision. What I had all along half feared had been proved. Between my love and the man of whom I had never had the slightest suspicion, some secret—some guilty secret—existed.
And even now, even at risk of losing my affection, she was seeking to shield him!
My blood boiled within me, and I clenched my fists as I strode angrily up and down that dark room.
All her admissions came back to me—her frantic appeal to me not to prejudge her, and her final and out-spoken decision to take her own life rather than reveal the truth.
What could it mean? What was the real solution of that strange problem of crime in which, quite unwittingly, I had become so deeply implicated?