"It is the jargon of the law, Miss Mordaunt. Every line adds a mite to the small incomes of us poor lawyers." "But who are these people?" Sharpe looked puzzled. "The first deed recites the marriage contract between you and Mr. Van Hupfeldt," he began to explain. But Violet said, and her words had the cold clink of ice in a glass: "Who is Mr. Van Hupfeldt?" "Vi!" This from Mrs. Mordaunt. "Mother, better not interfere. You don't seem to understand, Mr. Sharpe. You spoke of a Mr. Henry Van Hupfeldt. Who is he?" The lawyer, smirking at the hidden joke, pointed to the man standing by the table. "Of course, that is he," he said. "Oh, no. That is Johann Strauss, the man who married and, it may be found, killed my sister. You must look further into your papers, Mr. Sharpe. There is some terrible mistake. Perhaps, if you went on your knees and prayed to God for guidance in your work, it might be better!" "Vi!" shrieked her mother again, and the dog in her lap sprang off in alarm. The solicitor stood dumfounded, still thinking that some bizarre piece of humor was toward. It was Van Hupfeldt who saved Mrs. Mordaunt from imminent hysteria. "Violet has been talking to that fellow Harcourt, of whom I told you," he said coolly. "She is, unfortunately, only too ready to believe him, and a further wall of distrust is built between us at a most inopportune moment. I am sorry, Mrs. Mordaunt; it is not my fault. And I would have saved you from this, Violet. I knew he had left London, so I wired precautions. But he is a scamp of unparalleled audacity and resource. Surely you have given him no money?" Violet, scarce trusting her ears, listened to the calm, smooth sentences with rising indignation. But she mastered herself sufficiently to say: "He has told me everything--about the certificates, the diary, all. The time of lies has passed. Did you, then, kill my sister?" "Why condense the tale? Of course he assured you that Dibbin, the agent who let the flat to your sister's husband, will readily identify me as Strauss; that Sarah Gissing, her servant, will hail me as her former master?" "Yes. He did say that." "Why did he not bring them here?" "He will bring them to-morrow." Van Hupfeldt smiled wearily. It seemed as though he could not help himself. "Forgive me, Violet," he said. "It is I who will bring them--not Harcourt. He dare not. His bubble bursts the moment you ask for proof. Indeed, I am beginning to think the man is mad. He must have conceived an insane affection for you, and you are committing a great wrong in giving him these clandestine meetings." This was too much. Violet advanced toward him with eyes aflame. "There were days in the history of the world when men were struck dead from Heaven!" she cried. "That is yet possible," he answered with a strange humility. "Do you deny all, all?" she almost screamed.