"Everything, as I dashed--old weak man as I was--at the wretch who had done this thing. It was only a momentary struggle, and I was thrown down, and saw him dart to the folding-doors and pass through. I staggered after him in time to hear him overturn a pot or two in the verandah, as he swung himself over and slid down the pillar. Then I was alone panting there in that chamber of death; for as I took the candle from the little stand, and drew aside the curtain, it was to gaze down upon the starting eyes of the strangled woman--dead in my house, under the protection of my roof; and, with the horrible thought upon me that only a brief while back I was nearly entering that chamber to play the part of thief, I gave no alarm, but shrank towards the door, and stole out trembling, bathed with sweat, to get back to my room, and try to think out what I should do." Fred Denville groaned, and the old man's breath went and came with the sound of one who has been hunted till he stands at bay. "I had not been there a minute before I heard steps; a light shone beneath my door, and I sat trembling, utterly prostrated, for I knew that it was Claire who had been alarmed. I wanted to go out and stop her, to set her on her guard; but I sat there as if suffering from nightmare, unable to move, even when she came at last and summoned me; and, like one in a dream, I listened to what she had to say, and followed her to the murdered woman's room. I could not stay her; I could do nothing. I dared not give the alarm; I dared not speak, but went with her, and saw all again in a dazed, confused way, till I noticed something on the floor, which I snatched up and hid from Claire; and then the confusion was gone--driven away by the agony I felt. My God, what agony, as I read in Claire's eyes that she believed I had done that deed!" "She believed this of you?" "Yes; and believes it still," groaned the prisoner. "But--but," cried Fred excitedly, "what was it you snatched from the floor?" "A knife; a knife I knew. One that I had seen before." "But the murderer--you saw him?" "Plainly as I see you." "But you did not summon help." "I could not." "I knew you were innocent," cried Fred excitedly. "I swore you were." "I am," said the old man coldly. "Should you know the wretch again?" panted Fred. "Yes; too well." "But you did not say this at the inquest." "My lips were closed." "But, father, you do not--" "Silence, hypocrite! Enough of this. I could not speak. I dare not tell the world the murderer was my own son." Fred Denville drew himself erect. His father rose from the bed, and the two men stood gazing for some minutes in each other's eyes without a word. It was the Master of the Ceremonies who broke the spell. "Now," he said, "I have spoken. It is enough. Your secret is safe with me. Go. Repent, but do not ask me to forgive you. Ask that of Heaven. I am old and broken, and can die." "But, father!" groaned Fred wildly, "it was not I."