“Where did you find that?” asked the major, with the first show of deep emotion I have ever observed in him. My agitation was greater than his as I replied: “In the rough boarding under those drawers. Some woman’s arm and hand has preceded mine in stealthy search after that fatal spring. A woman who wore lace, valuable lace.” There was but one woman connected with this affair who rightly answered these conditions. The bride! Veronica Moore. XXIII. WORDS IN THE NIGHT Had I any premonition of the astounding fact thus suddenly and, I may say, dramatically revealed to us during the weeks I had devoted to the elucidation of the causes and circumstances of Mrs. Jeffrey’s death? I do not think so. Nothing in her face, as I remembered it; nothing in the feeling evinced toward her by husband or sister, had prepared me for a disclosure of crime so revolting as to surpass all that I had ever imagined or could imagine in a woman of such dainty personality and unmistakable culture. Nor was the superintendent or the district attorney less confounded by the event. Durbin only tried to look wise and strut about, but it was of no use; he deceived nobody. Veronica Moore’s real connection with Mr. Pfeiffer’s death,—a death which in some inscrutable way had in so short a time led to her own,—was an overwhelming surprise to every one of us. The superintendent, as was natural, recovered first. “This throws quite a new light upon the matter,” said he. “Now we can understand why Mr. Jeffrey uttered that extraordinary avowal overheard on the bridge: ‘She must die!’ She had come to him with blood on her hands.” It seemed incredible, nay more, unreal. I recalled the sweet refined face turned up to me from the bare boards of this same floor, the accounts I had read of the vivacity of her spirits and the wild charm of her manner till the shadow of this old house fell upon her. I marveled, still feeling myself in the dark, still clinging to my faith in womankind, still asking to what depths her sister had followed her in the mazes of crime we were forced to recognize but could not understand. Durbin had no such feelings and no such scruples, as was shown by the sarcastic comment which now left his lips. “So!” he cried, “we have to do with three criminals instead of two. Nice family, the Moore-Jeffreys!” But no one paid any attention to him. Addressing the major, the district attorney asked when he expected to hear from Denver, adding that it had now become of the first importance to ascertain the exact relations existing between the persons under suspicion and the latest victim of this deadly mechanism. The major’s answer was abrupt. He had been expecting a report for days. He was expecting one yet. If it came in at any time, night or day, he was to be immediately notified. Word might be sent him in an hour, in a minute.