But, at the sight of Mme. de Vigny, her old enemy and rival, all the merriment and infantile innocence in Fenella’s lovely audacious face faded suddenly; her tawny eyes flashed with the tigerish gleam Frank remembered so well, her soft red mouth grew hard and set. “I perceive,” she said icily, “that I am _de trop_. I was not aware that you were well enough to receive a _visitor_, Lord Francis. Mr. Jacynth, will you please take me away?” “Fenella!” cried Frank in an agony. “Let me explain! This, this she-fiend, this mocking devil has come to try and persuade me that it was I--_I_ who stabbed Count de Mürger with my own hand! Tell me, for pity’s sake, that you at least do not believe it!” “For once in her life,” said Fenella, with a touch of her old airy impertinence, “Mme. de Vigny has spoken the truth. My dear Frank, I would willingly oblige you if possible, but I cannot. I _saw_ you do it with my own eyes!” The unhappy Frank staggered at these terrible words. “My own wife! _She_ says she saw me do this thing! How you must _loathe_ me, Fenella! _How_ you must loathe me!” “But I _don’t_, Frank,” she assured him earnestly. “I don’t loathe you in the least, you poor unhappy boy! Because--oh, listen, Frank--when you killed him, I knew from your expression that you were in a hypnotic trance, and, therefore, neither morally nor legally responsible for your actions!” Frank wiped his brow; an immense load was lifted from his soul. “That accounts for it,” he said slowly, “I felt sure I could not have committed such an act in an ordinary state without retaining _some_ recollection of the circumstance. And yet,” he added moodily, “if I am accused, who can prove that I did it in this unconscious state? Not you, Fenella; according to Mme. de Vigny, at least.” “Just so,” said Lucille, speaking for the first time. “You are his wife, Lady Francis, and the law will not accept you as a witness. There is no one who can prove it, and therefore, the deduction I leave to you.” “Pardon me,” said Jacynth, stepping calmly forward. “There _is_ somebody--Lord Castleton. He has lately told me so. It appears, my dear Onslow, that he saw you subsequently, when you were suffering from a precisely similar attack. You stabbed madly, blindly, without being in the least aware of your actions.” “_Another_ murder?” cried the horrified Frank. “Oh, the horror, the black, hopeless horror of it! To be doomed to these deeds of blood, and never to suspect it till too late. Jacynth, I think I shall go mad.” “There is no necessity, my dear boy,” said the barrister kindly. “Fortunately, on this particular occasion you were armed with no more formidable weapon than a roll of paper, or else, had there been a victim at hand, which providentially there was not, the consequences might indeed have been disastrous.”