The same evening Lord Vincent, being alone in his dressing room, rang his bell; and his valet as usual answered it. "Come in here, Frisbie. Shut the door after you, and stand before me," said his lordship. "Yes, my lord," answered the servant, securing the door and standing before his master. Lord Vincent sat with his back to the window and his face in the shadow, while the light from the window fell full on the face of the valet, who stood before him. This was a position Lord Vincent always managed to secure, when he wished to read the countenance of his interlocutor, without exposing his own. "Well, Frisbie, they are gone," said his lordship, looking wistfully into the face of his servant. "Yes, my lord," replied the latter, looking down. "And--without discovering the murderer of Ailsie Dunbar," he continued, in a meaning voice. "Yes, my lord," replied the valet, with the slightest possible quaver in his tone. "That must be a very great relief to your feelings, Frisbie," said the viscount. "I--have not the honor to understand your lordship," faltered Frisbie, changing color. "Haven't you? Why, that is strange! My meaning is clear enough. I say it must be a very great relief to your feelings, Frisbie, to have the inquest so well over, and all the law-officers out of the house. You must have endured agonies of terror while they were here. I know I should in your place. Why, I expected every day that you would bolt, though that would have been the worst thing you could possibly have done, too, for it would have been sure to direct suspicion towards you, and you would have been certain to be recaptured before you could have got out of England," said Lord Vincent coolly. "I--I--my lord--I have not the honor--to--to--under----" began the man, but his teeth chattered so that he could not enunciate another syllable. "Oh, yes! you have the honor, if you consider it such. You understand me well enough. What is the use of attempting to deceive me? Frisbie, I was an eye-witness to the death of Ailsie Dunbar," said his lordship emphatically, and fixing his eyes firmly upon the face of his valet. Down fell the wretch upon his knees, with his hands clasped, his face blanched, and his teeth chattering. "Oh, my lord, mercy, mercy! It was unpremeditated, indeed it was! it was an accident! it was done in the heat of passion! and--and--she did it herself!" gasped the wretch, so beside himself with fright that he did not clearly know what he was talking about. "Frisbie, stop lying. Did it herself, eh? I saw you do the deed. The razor was in your hands. She struggled and begged, poor creature, and cut her poor hands in her efforts to save her throat; but you completed your purpose effectually before I could appear and prevent you from murdering her. Then I kept your secret, since no good could have come of my telling it."