Biddy left the bedside and came close to her. "If ye insist, Miss Dinah--" she said. "I do--I do insist." Never in her life before had Dinah spoken with such authority, but a force within was urging her--a force irresistible; she spoke as one compelled. Biddy came closer still. "Ye'll not tell Master Scott--nor any of 'em--if I tell ye?" she whispered. "No, no; of course--no!" Dinah's voice came breathlessly; she had not the power to draw back. "Ye promise, Miss Dinah?" Biddy could be insistent too; her eyes burned like live coals. "I promise, yes." Dinah held out an impulsive hand. "You can trust me," she said. Biddy's fingers closed claw-like upon it. "Whist now, Miss Dinah!" she said. "If Sir Eustace was to hear me, sure, he'd wring the neck on me like as if I was an old fowl. But ye've asked me what's happened, mavourneen, and sure, I'll tell ye. For it's the pretty young lady that ye are and a cruel shame that ye should ever belong to the likes of him. It's his doing, Miss Dinah, every bit of it, and it's the truth I'm speaking, as the Almighty Himself could tell ye if He'd a mind to. The poor lamb was fading away aisy like, but he came along and broke her heart. It was them letters, Miss Dinah. He took 'em. And he burned 'em, my dear, he burned 'em, and when ye were gone she missed 'em, and then he told her what he'd done, told her brutal-like that it was time she'd done with such litter. He said it was all damn' nonsense that she was wasting her life over 'em and over the dead. Oh, it was wicked, it was cruel. And she--poor innocent--she locked herself up when he'd gone and cried and cried and cried till the poor heart of her was broke entirely. She said she'd lost touch with her darling husband and he'd never come back to her again." "Biddy!" Horror undisguised sounded in Dinah's low voice. "He never did such a thing as that!"