"Do you know what grief is?" she asked, in a dull, hard voice; "do you know what it is to go about with a smile on your lips, and a broken heart? No, of course you don't--you are men; and cannot feel pain as a woman can. I have lost two children, and it nearly broke my heart--my husband is wrapped up in his work, and does not care for me except as a useful ornament to his table--the only two children I had died when I most wanted their love and affection, and I thought my heart would break--perhaps it did--but--I lived--yes--I went about with a smiling face, and talked gaily with my friends--they said I was heartless. God! If they only knew the nights of agony that succeeded to days of apparent joy--but I lived--yes, and I still go about amusing myself--a maelstrom above, but a hell below. This is another blow. I loved my brother dearly, though I had not seen him for years, and now he is dead--murdered--by whom?--you do not know--I do!" "What do you mean?" asked Monteith, starting to his feet. She sprang forward and caught his wrist. "Did he not tell you the story of his life--how he was ruined by a woman?" "Elsie Macgregor?" "No, she tried to save him; it is not her I mean--you know--his wife--his Maltese wife, Bianca Cotoner." Monteith fell back in his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Heavens, was it all true then? was the girl he loved the sister of a murderess? And yet, though it looked so black against her, where was the proof? He looked up suddenly. "There is no proof," he began. "Proof!" she flashed out, quickly; "you want proof--I can supply it." And she ran quickly out of the room. "What does she mean?" asked Monteith. "I know," said Foster, sagaciously; "she has gone for that paper." "Impossible!" "I don't see what other proof she can have," said the barrister, shrugging his shoulders. "It's impossible--it's impossible, I tell you," cried Monteith, vehemently; "his wife might have killed him, but she was not a Miss Cotoner." "The evidence both of the Divorce Court and Mrs. Taunton says she was." "But she cannot be the sister of Carmela." "I cannot say there may be more Cotoner families than one in Malta; but still, Vassalla's name being mixed up in it seems to point out that she might be." "I won't believe it till I hear the truth from her own lips." "You will ask her, then?" "No!" "That's a mistake; you'll only torture yourself till you get a satisfactory explanation." Monteith flung himself back in his chair with a low moan, his bright young face looking pinched and haggard in the dim light, and at this moment Mrs. Taunton entered the room, carrying a desk in her hands. "This is my brother's," she said, placing it on a table, and turning to the young men. "He sent it to me about a year ago, and asked me to keep it for him, as he was going to South America, and did not want to take it with him. He also sent the key, and I looked over the contents; they are principally letters."