So he had made inquiries at the asylum, had learned her address, and had taken the train for Elizabeth on the morning of that fatal tenth of June. He had made his way to the Kingdon cottage, had found Harriet Kingdon there alone, had entered, seated himself familiarly, perhaps attempted some endearment. He was confident, self-satisfied. It was better than he had hoped. Here was a comfortable home ready for him; a wife who seemed to be making a good living. If it should be necessary, he could no doubt find many pupils at Elizabeth, and if the pay was not quite metropolitan, why, neither was the work. Here was a golden future; yes, he would be generous; she should be his wife; he would forget all that had happened.... But the sight of him had brought back the memory of her old infamy, which her attack of madness and the years had partially blotted out; the cloud rolled down upon her brain again, that white hate leaped to life. She snatched up her revolver and shot him through the heart, even as he sat there confidently smiling. Then, with a strength born of insanity, she had dragged him to the cellar and dug a grave for him there. The story was strong in every link; there could be no doubting it. * * * * * Not until the inquest was finished, and we entered the train together to return to New York, did I get the chance to talk quietly with Godfrey. "You did great work," I said, as we sat down together. "Yes," he agreed, smiling, "I was pleased with it myself. The story developed beautifully." "And clearly. Even the coroner's jury couldn't question it. There's no possibility, now, of any one associating this affair with Miss Lawrence's disappearance. If it had to happen, I'm glad that it happened just when it did--it's served to make the public forget the other mystery. I'm pleased for another reason," I added. "Lucy Kingdon won't be called upon to tell that story on the stand. I don't like her nor trust her, but I'm glad she'll be spared that ordeal." "It would have been a trying one," Godfrey agreed. "The coroner tells me that she's very ill. I feel guilty, in a way. I should have prepared her for that horror in the cellar. I shouldn't have taken her without warning to the brink of that grave." "That wasn't the only cause of her illness," I said. "She had sins of her own on her conscience. I don't understand even yet," I added, "why that face should affect her so. She couldn't have recognised it, since she'd never seen Parello." "How do you know she never saw him? I'm decidedly inclined to think she had--that he was the cause of that violent quarrel between her and her sister which Dr. Schuyler mentioned. Lucy Kingdon, looking at the man clear-eyed, saw him as he was and tried to dissuade her sister from the entanglement; the elder woman, blinded by passion, wouldn't listen, and the quarrel followed, in which both, no doubt, used words which they afterwards regretted."