“We must be brave, dear,” she whispered now. “We must be on our guard every instant! Oh--h! they shall tear my heart out before they learn anything--so much as a syllable! We must keep our nerves.” She looked up into his astonished face, with almost a smile in her effort to strengthen his courage. “We _will_ be brave, won’t we, mine? The test will come soon now. Perhaps in an hour they will bring--_it!_” The trembling seized her frame, and shook it with cruel force. She buried her face in his breast with along, low cry of anguish, and sobbed there piteously, clinging to his hand still. Once she bent as if to kiss it again, but stopped, then turned her head aside, groaning “Oh how terrible! how terrible!” The mystification now demanded light of some sort. “What is it that is so terrible, my poor girl?” he asked. “What are they going to bring in an hour? Tell me, Isabel--my sweet sister--what does it all mean?” She looked up into his face, with flickering suggestions of a mechanical smile at the comers of her pale lips, and with soft reproach in her eyes: “Are you going to pretend to _me_, too, dear one? As if it were not all here in my heart--all, all! Ah, they shan’t get it! They shan’t get the shadow of a hint. You were home here all the while! You were asleep, sound asleep! If it be necessary, I could swear that I _knew_ you were asleep, that--but no, there might be suspicion then. That we mustn’t have! Don’t fear for me, dear one! I shall be so discreet, so circumspect, watching, weighing every word! But oh--h--shall we dream of _it?_ What if we should, and should cry out in our sleep--Oh-h, my God! my God!” She sank again, convulsively clutching his hand, and quivering with feverish sobs upon his breast. “Upon my soul, I don’t in the least know what you are talking about, Isabel! Do try and be calm, and tell me what it is!” “_He_ asks _me!_” she cried, with the same jarring, painful half-laugh he had heard before. He held her from him, so that he might look into her face. “Come, come! You are acting like a tragedy-queen on the stage. Do be sensible, and tell me what the matter is. You make me out of patience with you!” He spoke in the vexed tone of a man needlessly perplexed with foolish mysteries. To her strained senses the simple expression of impatience was cruel mockery. She drew herself still further back from him, and dropped his hand. She was able to speak collectedly now: “It is _you_ who are the actor. You persist in playing the part--to _me!_” “Still in riddles! _What_ part, Isabel?” “You _will_ have me tell you? You want to hear the thing--in words?” “Yes, by all means.” She had never once taken her frightened, fascinated gaze from his face. “You insist on hearing from my lips that while you were out last night your brother was murdered----” “What!”