It was about midday; the world outside was white with snow, the sky was heavy with sombre clouds, and these five men, actors in the drama known as the Jarlchester Mystery, had met together in order to explain their several shares in the same. Octavius Fanks had described the manner in which he had first become involved in the affair, the methods by which he had traced the crime, and the reasons he had had for his several suspicions. At the conclusion of the detective's speech Roger Axton took up the thread of the story, supplying by oral testimony all the points of which Fanks was ignorant. Having finished his story, Monsieur Judas arose to his feet and revealed all he knew about the case. "But first, my friends," he said, with venomous malignity, "I give to Monsieur Fanks the congratulations on his talent for foolish fancies. Eh! yes, he is a grand detective, this young man, who thinks all have committed the murder but the real one. Conceive to yourselves, messieurs, the blindness of this monsieur--" "I admit all your abuse," interrupted Fanks, curtly; "go on with what you have to tell." "Eh! I enrage this monsieur, me," said Judas, with an insolent laugh. "Bah! I mock myself of his anger. Behold, messieurs, I tell you the little tale of all things. Me, I loved this angel that now is dead; but she her heart gave to the dear Melstane. She returned from the Île de Vight and tells Melstane that her father is poor, and she is to marry this amiable Spolgers. My friend Melstane is enraged, and says: 'I go to your father to tell him I wish you for mine.' But the dear angel is afraid of the hard poverty. She weeps, she entreats, she implores the cruel Melstane to release her, but he refuses with scorn. Myself I heard it all. She speaks to me as her friend. I paint her the pictures of starving, I make her to shrink with fear. Conceive, I implore you, messieurs, how this beautiful one, reared in money, dreads the coldness of the poor. She says: 'He must not drag me to poorness! I am afraid of myself if he does. I am like my mother.' Then, messieurs, I hear from her sweet lips that madame, her dead mother, was mad. The poor angel is afraid she will be mad some day also. Nevertheless, I love her, I wish her for mine. I am the friend of Melstane; but him I love not, because of this dear one. I say: 'My friend Melstane will pull you to the cold, to the street, to the want of bread. Defend yourself, my beautiful. Kill him!'" "Oh!" cried Roger, in a tone of horror, "you put the idea into her head?"