“Hush! For Heaven’s sake speak lower,” said Kate in an eager whisper. It was so dreadful to think that Sophy _might_ hear, although the rooms were large and there was no great probability of such a catastrophe, but still the sound of John’s angry words _might_ reach the ears of Arthur’s wife; and Kate, girl though she was, could foresee and dread the consequences of such a terrible calamity. “Speak lower,” she said a little proudly, for there was a spice of her mother’s _hauteur_ in her veins, and Kate Vavasour chafed under the familiar _brusquerie_ of one beneath her. “Speak lower, do you say? And why? Is this man, this base betrayer of--but I beg your pardon once more. You are a young lady, Miss Vavasour; one of a class that is protected from insult and wrong by the shield of position and a great name. A name, forsooth! Why _mine_ was, in its humble way, respected once; respected till your brother came--your brother, whose father was my friend--and dragged the honour of my house, _my_ honour--” and he dealt a savage blow on his broad breast--“in the dust! My wife has left me,” he groaned out; “_that_ can be no secret now--left me for him, although I never knew it was so till to-day. It was yesterday I lost her; lost the poor child I loved so well: and in the evening I inquired for her at her rascal father’s house, but they could, or perhaps would not tell me anything. But to-day I went again, and forced them to be more explicit. Then I learnt how _he_ had, while she was with her father, how he had spent his days, his evenings, all his time, with Honor. I came here three hours ago, and tried to learn something of the man’s movements--something which would guide me to my wife; but all the answer was that he had been out for hours, no one could tell me where; but the rascal that I spoke to grinned, and hinted of a lady’s letter till I was almost driven mad; and here I am, hoping that you, at least, will not--” He was interrupted by a cry--a cry, feeble it is true, but so piercing and peculiar in its tone that it haunted his brain afterwards for weeks; then there was the sound of a heavy fall--a fall which Kate knew, in the twinkling of an eye, was that of poor Sophy’s lifeless body on the floor. In a moment all was wild confusion; a very Babel of cries and consternation; and John Beacham (awakened, when too late, to a sense of the evil which his intemperate words had wrought) lifted the inanimate form of the poor young wife in his strong arms, and laid her gently on the bed from which a fatal curiosity had roused her. Verily in the old tale of Bluebeard there is much and truthful knowledge of female nature, for to every woman there is a subtle and terrible attraction in the _bloody key_; and to know that which it is well for their peace that they should ignore, has ever been an insatiable craving amongst the fair daughters of Eve.