A deathlike stillness ensued as the clerk rose and asked the foreman,-- "Have you agreed upon your verdict?" "We have." "Do you find the prisoner, Frank Burgoyne, guilty of having murdered Ethel Inglewood, or not guilty?" "Not guilty!" An outburst of applause greeted this announcement; then the judge ordered my discharge, and I walked from the dock a free man. Vera met me, and flinging her arms about my neck, kissed me. My face was wet with her tears of joy. Not a single word was exchanged between us. We left the Court together, and entering a cab, drove to the Grand Hotel, where she was staying. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. VERA'S SECRET. A few hours had elapsed since my acquittal, and after a brush up and a hasty meal I had entered Vera's sitting-room. It was already dark. The tiny electric lamps flooded with amber light the small apartment rendered cosy by the drawn curtains. On a lounge chair she sat, wrapped in a pale grey cashmere gown, with a bunch of crimson roses in her breast. At sight of me she rose. Not a muscle of her countenance stirred, I and could divine her embarrassment by the sharp glance she momentarily darted at me. I scented in this proceeding some annoying mystery. A constrained silence reigned for some moments. "Frank," exclaimed she, in a very calm tone, advancing slowly and taking my hand, "at last we are alone." "Yes, Vera," I replied, calling to my aid all my coolness to feign a serenity which I was far from possessing. "Now, perhaps, you will let me know this secret of yours which has so long estranged us, and brought us all this sorrow." She stood motionless, with compressed lips, and shivering slightly, said,-- "Forgive me! Frank, forgive me! I will tell you everything. You shall know the truth; believe me." "Why did you not tell me the truth long ago; then this degrading trial would have been avoided," I said, bitterly. "Because I could not, until this afternoon." "Not when my life was at stake?" She shook her head seriously, replying, "No, it was impossible." Was I still being duped? Those were the only words that beat a constant and painful tattoo in my brain. "Tell me," I said, laying my hand upon her shoulder, "tell me the reason why you have kept this secret of yours till now?" "Hark!" she said, listening intently. I could hear nothing beyond the roar of the traffic in Trafalgar Square. She crossed quickly to the window, and flinging aside the curtains, opened it. "Come here," she commanded. I obeyed her. "See! below. There is a man selling newspapers. Listen to what he says?" I leant out of the window, and as I did so a hoarse cry broke upon my ear. It caused me to start, for the words the man shouted were, "Extra special! Attempt to murder the Czar! Exciting Scenes! Extra special!" "What has that to do with it?" I asked, puzzled, as she closed the window and drew the curtains again. "Everything," she replied, sighing. "Sit down, and I will tell you the story."