On the crest of the hill the breeze grew keener, and the dead leaves were being ripped from the hedgerows, and whirled down into the hollow, where the autumn wind seemed to follow Christabel and Jessie as they descended, with a long plaintive minor cry, like the lament at an Irish funeral. All was dark and desolate in the green valley, as Jessie unlocked the gate, and they went slowly down the steep slippery path, among moss-grown rock and drooping fern--down and down, by sharply winding ways, so narrow that they could only go one by one, till they came within the sound of the rushing water, and then down into the narrow cleft, where the waterfall tumbles into a broad shallow bed, and dribbles away among green slimy rocks. Here there is a tiny bridge--a mere plank--that spans the water, with a hand-rail on one side. They crossed this, and stood on the broad flat stone on the other side. This is the very heart of St. Nectan's mystery. Here, high in air, the water pierces the rock, and falls, a slender silvery column, into the rocky bed below. "Look!" said Jessie Bridgeman, pointing down at the stone. There were marks of blood upon it--the traces of stains which had been roughly wiped away by the men who found the body. "This is where he stood," said Jessie, looking round, and then she ran suddenly across to the narrow path on the other side. "And some one else stood here--here--just at the end of the bridge. There are marks of other feet here." "Those of the men who came to look for him," said Christabel. "Yes; that makes it difficult to tell. There are the traces of many feet. Yet I know," she muttered, with clenched teeth, "that some one stood here--just here--and shot him. They were standing face to face. See!"--she stepped the bridge with light swift feet--"so! at ten paces. Don't you see?" Christabel looked at her with a white scared face, remembering her husband's strange manner the night before last, and those parting words at Mr. Hamleigh's bedroom door. "You understand my plan?" "Perfectly." "It saves all trouble, don't you see." Those few words had impressed themselves upon her memory--insignificant as they were--because of something in the tone in which they were spoken--something in the manner of the two men. "You mean," she said slowly, with her hand clenching the rail of the bridge, seeking unconsciously for support; "you mean that Angus and my husband met here by appointment, and fought a duel?" "That is my reading of the mystery." "Here in this lonely place--without witnesses--my husband murdered him!" "They would not count it murder. Fate might have been the other way. Your husband might have been killed." "No!" cried Christabel, passionately; "Angus would not have killed him. That would have been too deep a dishonour!" She stood silent for a few moments, white as death, looking round her with wide, despairing eyes.