Lady Burville was small, slender, and usually as daintily tinted as a statuette of Dresden china. But at the present moment her face was pale, and her eyes, filled with alarm, looked apprehensively at Dora from under the loose fringe of her golden hair. Arrayed in a tea-gown of some white filmy material, she looked like a ghost as she glided towards the girl. Dora put these terrified looks down to a secret knowledge of her guilt, and believed in her own mind that Lady Burville had really slain Mr. Edermont. But again, she thought, it was impossible that so frail a creature could have struck so deadly a blow. Yet, why was she so terrified? "Miss Carew, I believe?" said Lady Burville, trying to smile with white lips. "Will you not be seated?" "No, thank you, Lady Burville," replied Dora stiffly. "I am obliged to you for granting me this interview." "I am only too pleased. You are a ward of Mr. Edermont's, I believe?" "I _was_ his ward, Lady Burville." "Yes, yes; how stupid of me! I forgot about that terrible murder." Dora deliberately produced the pearl brooch from her pocket, and held it out towards the other. "Perhaps this will refresh your memory?" she said slowly. "My brooch!" said Lady Burville in surprise. "How did you come by it? How did you find it?" "I did not find it, but Dr. Scott did." "Really! Where?" "On the floor of the room in which Mr. Edermont was killed." Lady Burville's face turned even whiter than it was before. "I--I do not understand," she stammered, shrinking back. "I can explain," continued Dora pitilessly. "You visited the Red House on the night of the second of August; you dropped this brooch there, and you there killed my guardian." "No, no! I--I did not! Who dares to say such a thing?" "I dare," said Dora calmly. "I say it again. You killed Mr. Edermont." "What--what proof have you?" gasped Lady Burville, seizing a chair to keep herself from falling. "The proof of this brooch; the evidence of Dr. Scott, who met you returning from the Red House. You need not deny it, Lady Burville. I believe you to be guilty, and I shall denounce you." "No, no! You cannot--you dare not!" "Why?" Lady Burville fell at her feet in a passion of tears. "I am your mother," she cried, "your unhappy mother!" CHAPTER XVII. A STORY OF THE PAST. "My mother!" Echoing Lady Burville's exclamation, Dora stepped backward and surveyed with amazement the weeping woman kneeling at her feet. The situation perplexed her. She could not believe that Lady Burville spoke truly in claiming so close a relationship, and deemed that it was some trick to avert the danger of being arrested for the crime. She frowned as this thought came into her mind, and turned away coldly. "I do not believe you, Lady Burville. My parents are dead." "Your father is dead," said Lady Burville, rising slowly, "but your mother lives; I am really and truly your mother. Why should I say what is not true?"