“She looks very ill, poor thing!” In these words the lawyer opened the business of the evening, referring to Mrs. Ferrari as unceremoniously as if she had been out of the room. “She has suffered a terrible shock,” Agnes answered. Mr. Troy turned to Mrs. Ferrari, and looked at her again, with the interest due to the victim of a shock. He drummed absently with his fingers on the table. At last he spoke to her. “My good lady, you don’t really believe that your husband is dead?” Mrs. Ferrari put her handkerchief to her eyes. The word “dead” was ineffectual to express her feelings. “Murdered!” she said sternly, behind her handkerchief. “Why? And by whom?” Mr. Troy asked. Mrs. Ferrari seemed to have some difficulty in answering. “You have read my husband’s letters, sir,” she began. “I believe he discovered—” She got as far as that, and there she stopped. “What did he discover?” There are limits to human patience—even the patience of a bereaved wife. This cool question irritated Mrs. Ferrari into expressing herself plainly at last. “He discovered Lady Montbarry and the Baron!” she answered, with a burst of hysterical vehemence. “The Baron is no more that vile woman’s brother than I am. The wickedness of those two wretches came to my poor dear husband’s knowledge. The lady’s maid left her place on account of it. If Ferrari had gone away too, he would have been alive at this moment. They have killed him. I say they have killed him, to prevent it from getting to Lord Montbarry’s ears.” So, in short sharp sentences, and in louder and louder accents, Mrs. Ferrari stated _her_ opinion of the case. Still keeping his own view in reserve, Mr. Troy listened with an expression of satirical approval. “Very strongly stated, Mrs. Ferrari,” he said. “You build up your sentences well; you clinch your conclusions in a workmanlike manner. If you had been a man, you would have made a good lawyer—you would have taken juries by the scruff of their necks. Complete the case, my good lady—complete the case. Tell us next who sent you this letter, enclosing the bank-note. The ‘two wretches’ who murdered Mr. Ferrari would hardly put their hands in their pockets and send you a thousand pounds. Who is it—eh? I see the post-mark on the letter is ‘Venice.’ Have you any friend in that interesting city, with a large heart, and a purse to correspond, who has been let into the secret and who wishes to console you anonymously?” It was not easy to reply to this. Mrs. Ferrari began to feel the first inward approaches of something like hatred towards Mr. Troy. “I don’t understand you, sir,” she answered. “I don’t think this is a joking matter.” Agnes interfered, for the first time. She drew her chair a little nearer to her legal counsellor and friend. “What is the most probable explanation, in your opinion?” she asked. “I shall offend Mrs. Ferrari if I tell you,” Mr. Troy answered. “No, sir, you won’t!” cried Mrs. Ferrari, hating Mr. Troy undisguisedly by this time.