"But I saw a letter from your sister to Vassalla, in which she says she was not on board, being confined to her room with a bad headache." "Why should my sister write such a letter?" asked Carmela, angrily. "I don't understand all this mystery; there was no reason why she should conceal the fact that she said good-bye to me on board the 'Neptune.'" "I hope not," he said, gloomily. "What do you mean?" "I mean that your sister's husband was on board." "What!" She rose to her feet, looking like a tall white lily; "how is it I never saw him? I would know Leopold Verschoyle among a thousand." Ronald, seeing the deep interest she took in this man, became brutal. "The reason you did not see him," he said, coldly, "was because he was murdered, and his name was Lionel Ventin." "My God!" A white heap on the floor, and Ronald bending over it, trying to bring her back to consciousness. He sprinkled some water on her face, and with a low moan she sat up, and pushing her dark hair off her forehead, looked confusedly at him. "I must have fainted," she said, as he assisted her to a seat, "but the shock was too much. God knows I have forgotten Leopold Verschoyle many long day since; but dead! oh, it is too horrible." Ronald sat in silence, not daring to say anything. "Who killed him?" she asked, suddenly looking up. "I don't know." She clasped her hands over her knees, and looked fixedly at him. "You don't know for certain," she said, slowly; "but you have your suspicions, and I want to know everything; tell me all." Whereupon Ronald told her what had happened, and how the links were being slowly added to the chain of evidence that seemed to connect her sister with the crime. When he was done she was pale, but composed. "It is very strange," she said, in her clear voice, "and I do not know what to say. I do not like my sister; she is a woman of violent temper, but I am certain she would not commit a crime." "Then why does she deny being on board the night the crime was committed?" "I cannot say, because she certainly was. I must write and ask her. I will also speak to Vassalla; there is something mysterious about this affair; but my sister must clear herself; it is too horrible that she should be suspected of such a crime; and this," with a sudden thought, "is why you are always with Mrs. Taunton?" "Yes; she is quite distracted over her brother's death." "Vassalla said you loved her." Ronald sprang to his feet with a cry of anger. "Then he lies; the only woman I ever did love, and ever shall love is----" She placed her hand on his lips. "Hush! Do not mention her name till the mystery of Leopold Verschoyle's death is solved." "And then?" he said eagerly, catching her hand. She drew it away quickly with a stifled cry. "I cannot say," she said wildly, wringing her hands; "God only knows the end. My sister must defend herself from this charge. I will write to her at once."