"That is one of my reasons for trying to save her," he said. "I do not want you to sacrifice yourself in this way--but we must not talk, we must act"; and he struck the bell on the table. "What would you do?" she asked. "You must tell my friend Foster all you know about your sister's marriage; he is a lawyer, and will find a way out of this dilemma." The servant appeared. "Tell Mr. Foster to come here." The servant disappeared. "How can you save my sister," she asked, quickly; "is she innocent?" "I don't know," he replied evasively; "but even if she is guilty, I'll save her." Mr. Foster entered the room. "Well," said that gentleman, "what's the matter?" "Miss Cotoner would like to tell you a story," said Ronald quietly. Carmela sat down, and so did Foster, who was now all attention, while Ronald leaned against the mantelpiece, and listened eagerly. "This," thought Foster, as he settled himself, "is the beginning of the end." CHAPTER XXIII. A LOOK INTO THE PAST. Someone in the drawing-room was playing a valse, "Love's Sorrow," and in after years Ronald could never hear the melody without recalling the scene in the smoking-room at Bellfield. The eminently masculine characteristics of the room, the steady glow of the lamp, the quiet, cold moonlight outside, and those two figures seated before him. His friend Foster, with his keen eyes fixed on Carmela,--the woman he loved, seated in the low chair looking like a statue, with her white dress and rigid face, and the mockery of that brilliant valse music sounding fitfully at intervals, while this bitter scene was taking place. "I will tell you all I know about Leopold Verschoyle," said Carmela, in low, steady tones, clasping her hands before her; "though I do not know I can throw any light upon the subject of his murder, but you can hear and judge for yourselves. "When I first met Leopold he was a fascinating man of the world, and I but a simple girl of nineteen. My sister was four years older, and we both fell in love with him. He paid his addresses to both of us, and I think it was then my sister first began to hate me, though heaven knows she had no cause to do so, for he married her, and left me to make the best of my--as I thought then--broken heart. I have recovered, however, and now that the scales have fallen from my eyes, I see that Leopold Verschoyle was not worthy of being loved, and as long as he gratified his own selfish passions, cared nothing for the lives he wrecked.