"There was no murder!" burst in Cecile Alix. "I swear it to you, monsieur. Do you understand? There was no murder!" I saw Miss Holladay wince at the other's voice, and Royce saw it, too. "I must get her to the inn," he said. "This is more than she can bear--I fear she will break down utterly. Do you stay and get the story, Lester. Then we'll decide what it is best to do." He led her away, out of the house and down the path, not once looking back. I watched them till the trees hid them, and then turned to the women. "Now," I said, "I shall be happy to hear the story." "It was that man yonder who was the cause of it all," began the mother, clasping her hands tightly in her lap to keep them still. "Four years ago he came from Paris here to spend the summer--he was ver' ill--his heart. We had been living happily, my daughter and I, but for the one anxiety of her not marrying. He met her and proposed marriage. He was ver' good--he asked no dowry, and, besides, my daughter was twenty-five years old--past her first youth. But she attracted him, and they were married. He took her back to Paris, where he had a little theater, a hall of the dance--but he grew worse again, and came back here. It was then that he found out that I had another daughter, whom I had given to a rich American. I was ver' poor, monsieur," she added piteously. "My man had died--" "Yes, madame, I know," I said, touched by her emotion. Plainly she was telling the truth. "So he wrote to friends in Amerique, and made questions about Monsieur Holladay. He learned--oh, he learned that he was ver' rich--what you call a man of millions--and that his daughter--my daughter, monsieur--was living still. From that moment, he was like a man possessed. At once he formed his plan, building I know not what hopes upon it. He drilled us for two years in speaking the English; he took us for six months to Londres that we might better learn. Day after day we took our lessons there--always and always English. Cecile learned ver' well, monsieur; but I not so well, as you can see--I was too old. Then, at last we reached New York, and my daughter--this one--was sent to see Monsieur Holladay, while I was directed that I write to Celeste--to Mademoiselle Holladay. She came that ver' afternoon," she continued, "and I told her that it was I who was her mother. He was with me, and displayed to her the papers of adoption. She could not but be convinced. He talked to her as an angel--oh, he could seem one when he chose!--he told her that I was in poverty--he made her to weep, which was what he desired. She promised to bring us money; she was ver' good; my heart went out to her. Then, just as she had arisen to start homeward, in Celeste came, crying, sobbing, stained with blood." She shuddered and clasped her hands before her eyes. "But you have said it was not murder, madame," I said to the younger woman.