Ronald gave a cry. She was describing the very stiletto by which Verschoyle had been killed. Great heavens! could it be that she was guilty after all? "Head of Bacchus--grapes! was--was that yours?" he stammered. "Yes," she replied, laying down the weapon on the table, and looking at him in a puzzled manner. "When did you see it last? "Oh, not for many years; it has been lost for a long time." Was she trying to shelter herself under the cloak of a lie? Ronald was determined to know the worst. He sprang forward and caught her wrist, she recoiled with a cry of alarm. "Now, tell me the truth." panted Ronald, his eyes blazing fiercely; "tell me the truth, I will not betray you." "What do you mean?" "Did you kill him?" "Kill him--whom?" "Leopold Verschoyle." "Are you mad?" She flung away his hand, and drawing herself up to her full height, looked like an angry goddess at the man who thus insulted her. But Ronald was too excited to heed her, and his words came pouring out in one torrent. "Yes, I am mad--mad, to believe anything against you, who are as pure as an angel. I'm only a poor devil who loves you, and want you to tell me all you know about this murder, so that I can save you." "Save me--murder!" She reeled a little, and caught hold of the table for support. "Look! look!" cried Ronald, pulling out his pocket-book with the fatal paper, which he had brought on purpose; "look here"--spreading it out--"your writing--your writing." Carmela glanced at it, and a film came over her eyes. "Yes, it's my writing--seven--seven years ago." "Then the stiletto by which he was killed, you have described it. You were on board; you recognised him." "I did not." She spoke the words firmly. "No, until you told me the other day who the murdered man was, I had no more idea than you had at Malta that Lionel Ventin was Leopold Verschoyle. I did write that note when I was mad with the treatment I had received. I was only a girl, and acted foolishly, as girls will. I did have such a stiletto, but I have not seen it for years. I gave it to my cousin Vassalla about five years ago." "Vassalla!" Ronald looked up suddenly. "Are you sure?" "Yes, he took a fancy to it, and I presented it to him. Did you believe me guilty?" suddenly. "No, on my soul I did not." "Can I believe you?" "Yes,--appearances were against you, but I swore you were--innocent. I told the detective so." "Detective! Is a detective employed?" "Yes." "By you?--don't deny it. I see it in your face. Oh, God!" wringing her hands; "What am I to do? You will ruin my sister!" Ronald suddenly grew calm. "Carmela, you know I love you?" "Don't speak of love at such a time." "I must; I believe I can save your sister." "You can?" "Yes, I think so." She clasped her hands with a gesture of entreaty. "Oh, if you only could," she cried passionately, "I would not then be forced to marry Vassalla!"