“I came from—from where you saw me,” began Sedgwick, “on a reckless impulse. Believe me, sir—” “One moment! Marjorie, I think you had best go to your room.” The girl’s soft lips straightened into a line of inflexibility. “I wish to speak to Mr. Sedgwick,” she said. “Speak then, and quickly.” “No; I wish to speak to him alone. There is an explanation which I owe him.” “And there is one which he owes you,” retorted Blair. “As he seems to have been too cowardly to give it, I will supply his deficiencies. In order that there may be no misunderstanding, let me present Mr. Francis Sedgwick, the murderer.” A low cry, the most desolate, the most stricken sound that Sedgwick had ever heard from human lips, trembled on the air. Before he could gather his senses to retort and deny, she had drawn herself to her feet—and the rose-bowered window framed only emptiness. Sedgwick whirled upon the other man. “Of course,” he said with deceptive calmness; “you know that you lie.” “I know that I speak truth,” retorted Mr. Blair with so profound a conviction that the other was shaken. “Is it possible that you really believe it?” he exclaimed. “So possible that, but for the scandal, I would do what I can not invoke the law to do, and exact life for life. And to crown all, I find you with my son’s wife—” “Your son’s wife!” The cry burst from Sedgwick’s lips. “—in the dead of night, at a rendezvous,” concluded Blair. “That is a lie,” said Sedgwick very low, “for which I shall kill you if you dare repeat it even to your own thoughts. It was no rendezvous. Is your mind so vicious that you can’t believe in innocence? Stop and think! How could it have been a rendezvous, when I came here, as you know, for another purpose?” “That is true,” said the other thoughtfully. “That still remains to be explained.” “By you,” returned the artist. “You speak of your son’s wife. To carry out the farce of the sham burial, shouldn’t you have said his ‘widow’?” “The widow of a day—as you well know,” answered Mr. Blair bitterly. “As I do _not_ know, at all. But I think I begin to see light. The rose-topazes on the dead woman’s neck. _Her_ topazes. That helps to clear it up. The dead woman was some past light-o’-love of Wilfrid Blair’s. She came here either to reassert her sway over him or to blackmail him. He gave her his wife’s jewels. Then he followed her to the cliffs and killed her, perhaps in a drunken frenzy. And you, Mr. Alexander Blair, to save your son, have concealed him somewhere, bribed the sheriff and the medical officer, contrived this false death and burial, and are now turning suspicion on a man you know to be innocent further to fortify your position. But what damnable lie have you told _her_?” During this exposition, Alexander Blair’s face was a study in changing emotions. At the close his thin lips curled in the suggestion of a sardonic grin. “I leave you to the company of your theory, sir,” said he, and the door closed sharply after him.