Mr. Brooke did not sit down. He knew that the interview which was about to take place was likely to be a painful one, but he could not guess in the least what kind of turn it would take. Did Rosalind believe in his guilt? Did she know what manner of man her brother Oliver had been? Was she going to reproach or to condole? She had done a strange thing in asking him to the house at all, and at another time he might have thought it wiser not to accede to her request; but he was in the mood in which the most extraordinary incidents seem possible, and scarcely anything could have seemed to him too bizarre to happen. He felt curiously impatient of the ordinary conventionalities of civilized life. Since this miraculous thing had come to pass--that he, Caspar Brooke, a respectable, sane, healthy-minded man of middle-age, could be accused of killing a miserable young scamp like Oliver Trent in a moment of passion--the world had certainly seemed somewhat crazy and out of joint. It was not worth while to stand very much on ceremony at such a conjuncture; and if Rosalind Romaine wanted to talk to him about her dead brother, he was willing to go and hear her talk. And yet as he stood in her dainty little drawing-room, it came over him very strongly that he ought not to be there. He was still musing when the door opened, and Rosalind stole into the room. He did not hear her until she was close upon him, and then he turned with a sudden start. She looked different--she was changed. Her face was very pale: her eyelids were reddened: she was dressed in the deepest black, and over her head she had flung a black lace veil, which gave her--perhaps unintentionally--a tragic look. She held the folds together with her right hand, and spoke to him quietly. "It was kind of you to come," she said. "You summoned me. I should not have come without that," he answered, quickly. "No, I suppose not. And of course--in the ordinary course of things--I ought not to have summoned you. The world would say that I was wrong. But we have been old friends for many years now, have we not?" "I always thought so," he answered, gravely. "But now--I fear----" "You mean"--with a strange vibration in her voice--"you mean that we must never be friends again--because--because of Oliver----" "This accusation must naturally tend to separate the families," he said, in a very calm, grave voice. "Even when it is disproved, we shall not find it easy to resume old relations. I am very sorry for it, Rosalind, just as I need not tell you how sorry I am for the cause----" She interrupted him hurriedly. "Yes, yes, I know all that; but you speak of _disproving_ the charge. Can you do that?" He was silent for a moment. "I shall do my best," he said at length, with some emotion in his voice. "And if it is not disproved--what then?" she asked. "Suppose they call it _murder_?" Caspar drew himself up: a certain displeasure began to mark itself upon his features. "Need you ask me?"