They withdrew a little further from the bed, Pratt still keeping a watchful eye upon the patient, while Colville tried to keep his roving glance away from the death-like face that sent a shudder of fear now and then along his frame. It seemed fearfully like death despite the learned theory of the case which Doctor Pratt was patiently explaining to him. "You said the first time we talked of this that you believed Miss Lawrence had been murdered," said Colville, suddenly. "Why did you form that opinion despite the contrary evidence?" "There was no evidence to the contrary," said the dark physician, complacently. "I formed it on the evidence of my own eyes. True, Miss Lawrence's door was locked on the inside; but"--he paused a moment to give effect to his words--"but a heavy, luxuriant honeysuckle vine was trained from the ground up to her window in the second story. The murderer, or murderess, entered her room by the door, turned the key, perpetrated the dreadful deed, and escaped by sliding down the thickly-twisted vine to the ground." "That is only your theory, doctor, I suppose." "It is a fact, not theory, monsieur. I furtively examined the vine myself. It was broken in places, bruised in its tender parts, and quantities of leaves and flowers were strewn upon the ground. It plainly showed that a heavy body had slid down upon it and injured it. I wonder that it escaped the dull eyes of the jury." "You are an astute man, doctor. Who, then, was the assassin of one so young and fair?" "I do not know, but I half suspected the beautiful woman who lives at Lawrence's--a sort of cousin, I think--a Mrs. Vance by name. Her evidence went a little further than the rest. She asserted that she heard the young lady lock her door that night--she seemed to favor the idea of suicide also by pressing a theory of her own, that Miss Lawrence had a secret trouble--was subject to fits of abstraction and depression. Yes, decidedly, I suspect the beautiful widow." "What motive could she have had?" "That I do not know. I could find out though if I set my wits to work. But I have no interest in knowing." "I have it," said Colville, suddenly; "I am acquainted with Mrs. Vance. When I used to visit the Lawrences I found out--no matter how--that Mrs. Vance was in love with Lancelot Darling. If she did the deed it was jealousy that goaded her to its commission." "Very probably," said the doctor. They had talked on, forgetful or regardless of the old woman who sat at the foot of the bed. She was listening eagerly, with twitching fingers, and muttered inaudibly, "Gold, gold." "What are you muttering about, old hag?" said Pratt, overhearing her. "None of your jargon now. And don't repeat what we have been saying to your old man. If you do I will send your black soul to its doom sooner than it would go of its own accord! Do you hear me, old witch?" "Yes, I hear; I will never repeat it, never," whined the old wretch, grinning horribly.