He handed her Mrs. Verschoyle's letter, which she read eagerly, and, having finished, gave it back to the Marchese, with a cold smile. "I see, she also denies being on board," she said, quietly; "so you are both telling deliberate falsehoods; will you kindly explain this riddle to me?" "That will be easy enough, my cousin," answered the Marchese, with a sneer; "I presume Monteith told you all about the death of Leopold Verschoyle?" "Well?" she asked, turning a shade paler: though Heaven knows, poor thing, she was pale enough before. "Well!" he echoed, mockingly; "don't you know that your sister was his wife, and, if it were known she had been on board, ugly questions might be asked?" "I understand what you mean," said Carmela, clasping her hands, "you think that she--had something to do with his death." "I did not say so." "No; but you hinted as much." "Then accept the hint I give, and deny that your sister was on board." "What! deny my own words?" "Certainly," he replied, coolly, "better than," significantly, "the other thing." "I don't believe it; I don't believe it," she cried, vehemently. "Bianca did not kill him." "How do you know?" he asked, pointedly. "Do you also accuse her?" she said, turning fiercely on him. "I accuse nobody," he said, coldly, "I merely tell you to hold your tongue." "I will justify myself to my sister, not to you," said Carmela, proudly; "she will be here next week." "What!--Is she coming here?" "Yes." "My faith! What cursed fools women are," he cried: "write, telegraph, anything, only say she must not come." "Why not?" "Because there is danger." "Danger!" "Yes; that meddling young fool of a Monteith is trying to find out about Verschoyle's death; if he is successful your sister is lost." "Is she guilty?" "For the second time, I say--I did not say so." "Is she guilty?" "Yes." Carmela gave a cry and turned away; this answer parted her from Ronald for ever. In an instant Vassalla was at her side--she felt his hot breath on her cheek. "But, I can save her, I can save her!" he said hurriedly,--"on one condition." "And that?" "Your hand," and he put his arm round her waist. "Never!" She tore herself away with an indignant cry; "do you take me for hush money?" "Either that, or your sister will reap the reward of her crime, and our name will be dishonoured for ever." "Think of your name alone," she said, imploringly; "you will save her?" "On the condition I mention. I don't care for the name, I only care for you. Why will you not marry me? You think of the Australian; he can be nothing to you. Would you marry the man who is hunting down your own flesh and blood; and would he marry the sister of a woman whom he knows is a murderess? Think again. I will save your sister and our family honour--on that one condition--you must be my wife." "If not?" she asked, defiantly.