"There is little to tell," she said, wearily. "It is the story of a great love, a love too big and strong to be conquered by a weak-willed woman. I tried--oh, I tried----" "Don't give way, Mrs. Faulkner, just tell me the main facts. You knew Mr. Stannard years ago?" "I was his first love. We were schoolmates. I always loved him--more than loved him. I worshipped, adored him. He loved me,--but he was always fickle. He loved every woman he saw. Then,--he married--his first wife, I mean, and I thought I should die. But never mind the past. I married, and I tried to forget Eric. My husband built this beautiful home, but he had financial troubles and couldn't keep it. Eric Stannard bought it, and meanwhile his wife had died, and he married my friend Joyce. I tried to be reconciled, but the demon of jealousy tore my very heart out. I gave over this house to them and went away. A portrait of myself was to be part of the purchase price, and--even though I knew it would be acute torment to see Eric happy here with Joyce, I came to stay a month and have the picture painted. As I feared, the necessarily intimate association between the artist and myself quickened my never-dying love for him, until I was almost frantic. I could have stood it, though, had it been only his wife. But when he fell desperately in love with the model, I resented it for Joyce and myself both. But I had no thought of killing him,--don't think that!" "It was done on a sudden impulse, then." Ford was watching her closely. He knew that her enforced calm might give way at any instant and he strove to speak quietly and lead her gently on to a confession. Moreover, he trusted that Joyce was listening, as he had asked her to do. Thus the confession would be witnessed.