“How beautiful the fragrance of the flowers is to-night! And, Kenelm, listen--have you ever heard the birds sing so sweetly? I wish--oh, how I wish!--that Ronald was home to-night! I cannot help thinking some danger threatens him. He is so continually in my thoughts. Twice to-day my heart has almost ceased to beat, for I heard his voice crying to me, ‘Hermione!’ and the fancy was so strong that for a few minutes I believed he must be near.” “My hands are quite dusty,” said Mr. Eyrle, with a smile as he took the key. Even so do children smile as they dance on the brink of a precipice hidden by flowers. He opened it, and she left her seat at his expressed wish. “You had better look through these yourself, Lady Alden, as Ronald considered them private.” She took the papers and looked carefully. “They seem to be certificates of a different kind. The papers are not here, Kenelm.” He was about to close the box, when quite suddenly she touched a secret spring, and a drawer flew open. Flew open--oh, Heaven!--and there in the midst of papers lay a long, slender dagger, rusted with human blood! They looked at it with horror-stricken eyes, Kenelm’s face growing white and rigid. “My God!” he cried at last, in a terrible voice. “What is this?” She, bending over it, looked like one suddenly smitten with death. Her eyes dilated; they fell upon a small square packet, and she, unperceived by him, covered it with an open sheet of paper and drew it away so slowly and so carefully that he did not perceive it--slowly, steadily until, with cunning right hand, she had hidden it in the pocket of her dress; and then she gave a great cry that was a sort of despair. “What is this?” he repeated, and the stern, passionate voice rang through the room. He seized her hand and held it in his grasp. “Hermione,” he whispered, in a strange, terrible voice, “do you know what this is--this hidden instrument of crime--this blood-stained dagger, once a toy for ladies’ fingers--this mute witness of an awful deed? Do you know what it is? It is the dagger that slew Clarice Alden!” She sank on her knees with a low moan and covered her face with her hands. “I was always sure,” he continued, “that the dagger would lead to the discovery of the crime. Here is the instrument. Who did the deed?” His voice sank from its passionate earnestness to a tone of horror and dread. She only moaned aloud, and he heard the word, “Mercy!” “No,” he said, sternly; “there is no mercy! Lady Alden, your husband murdered Clarice!” She gave one little cry, more piteous in its agony than any words. “Your husband, Sir Ronald Alden, who never loved her, murdered my darling, and he killed her that he might marry you!”