"Not a palace, truly, Miss Rivers," he said, with a shrug and a cynical smile, "but cheerful, homelike, nay, almost luxurious in comparison with some of its neighbors." Hermia's only reply was an involuntary shudder. Motioning her to the one chair in the place, he seated himself on the edge of a box, and cut the string of the parcel, which Hermia had handed him on entering the room. Before him lay the envelope and its contents, together with the bag of gold. He looked up, and his and Hermia's eyes met. "This," he said, laying a finger on the envelope, "my mother was to keep for me until I should choose to reclaim it; but this," shifting his finger to the bag, "was for her sole use, as I told her when I gave it her--to buy whatever she wanted, and help to make her comfortable." "Your mother refused to touch it, Mr. Varrel," replied Hermia, looking him steadily in the face. "What do you mean?" he demanded, with startling suddenness. "Who told you she would not touch it?" "She herself. She said there was blood on it--those were her words--and that she would have nothing to do with it till you had proved to her how you had come by it." He sat for some seconds without speaking or stirring, like one in doubt what to do or say next. Then he said, sneeringly: "Old people when they lie dying often get strange fancies into their heads, and give expression to all manner of ridiculous things. Sensible people take no heed of their ravings at such times." "On the contrary, it is at such times that secrets long hidden come unexpectedly to light." He bit his lip as if to restrain himself from saying something which he might afterwards have regretted. Having glanced at the seal, he was about to put the envelope into his pocket unopened, when Hermia said: "Mr. Varrel, have you noticed what is written outside that packet?" "No--what is it?" he demanded. In the twilight he had overlooked the writing. He now crossed to the window and read it. Then for a little space he stood stock still, with eyes that seemed fixed on vacancy. Then, going back to his seat, he said dryly: "My mother's writing, without a doubt, Miss Rivers. But it was scarcely worth while--was it?--to draw my attention specially to it." "You are quite aware of my motive in drawing your attention to it." responded Hermia. "Those words were written within twenty-four hours of the time Mr. Hazeldine was found murdered." He put down the packet with a sudden movement, as if it had scorched his fingers. "Oh, Mr. Varrel!" cried, the girl, clasping her hands in front of her bosom, as if thereby to enforce her appeal, "if you know anything whatever in connection with that terrible crime--if you have any clue, even the faintest, to the perpetrator of it--I implore you no longer to conceal it." Varrel got up abruptly, and, crossing to the window, stood staring out of it with his back towards her. Hermia waited till the silence became all but unbearable.