He now stood within the room, a couple of feet from Pauline, in the direction of the bed, but with his back to it. Pauline, with a sudden sharp movement, darted to the mantelpiece, by the side of which was the bell-push. In the same instant he, too, darted forward and clutched her wrist, just as she was about to touch the bell. They held themselves rigid for a moment, like statues. “I understand your feelings,” said Mr. Jetsam in a shaken voice. “I admire you. But before you ring that bell, let me assure you most solemnly that if you do ring it you will bring murder into this house. You will utterly ruin one family, if not two. Believe what I say; you cannot help but believe it. A man’s character for truthfulness shows itself in every accent of his voice, and by this time, you must be very well aware that when I speak, I speak the truth.” Pauline moved from the mantelpiece and he loosed her arm. “Well?” she said interrogatively. She did not know it, but she was breathing very rapidly through her nose, and her charming nostrils were distended. Still, she probably noticed the admiration in Mr. Jetsam’s glance. “Miss Dartmouth,” he began, and then stopped. Simultaneously they both thought of the invalid stretched moveless on the bed, and Pauline bent over that form. The eyes blinked irregularly, and always they stared up at the same point of the ceiling. They were dry, but Pauline noticed traces of tears on the rugged cheeks, and she wiped them away--it was her mission. “Ah!” she murmured. “You can’t advise me what I ought to do.” And then she faced Mr. Jetsam once more, still standing by the bed. The table-lamp, with the crimson silk shade, and the bright fire gave sufficient light. “Miss Dartmouth,” Mr. Jetsam recommenced, “a great crime was committed long ago in the Ilam family, one of the most cruel crimes conceivable. It can never be atoned for in full, or nearly in full: but, even now, after many, many years, it can be partially atoned for.” “Who committed this crime? and what was it? Murder?” gasped Pauline in a breath. “I cannot be sure who committed it,” replied the man; “and it was not murder. It was worse than murder.” “How do you know it was worse than murder? How does it concern you?” “I was the victim,” said the man quietly. And then he raised his voice and repeated: “I was the victim. I am the victim.” “Hush!” she warned him. “Not so loud.” He turned to the bed with a strange expression on his face. “Why not so loud?” he demanded. “She can hear, even if we speak in a whisper. She has heard everything, and she can do nothing.” He spoke bitterly, and held a pointing finger at the old woman. And her eyes remained ever fixed, blinking irregularly, regardless of the two beings near her. “You are cruel,” said Pauline. “You torture her.” “Far from being cruel,” said Mr. Jetsam, “I am kind. Justice is always kind, for it alone produces peace, and peace alone produces happiness.”