"Why, then, did you confess in your letter that you were unworthy of my love!" I demanded with warmth, walking towards her. She hung her head. There was a deep silence, broken only by the low ticking of the clock. In a few moments her hand stole in search of mine, and, engrossed in my own sad thoughts, I let it linger there. "Geoffrey," she said at length, timidly. I gazed out upon the sunlit river, watching a boatful of happy holiday folk pass by, and remained stolidly unconscious. "Geoffrey," she repeated, "I tried ever so long to refrain from that confession, yet was unable. But I did not allude to Mr Beck. It was my conduct with Dudley that caused me to become a conscience-stricken wretch. I feared from day to day that you might discover our many long excursions and the idle afternoons we spent up the backwaters; he lazy and indolent, I using all my woman's wiles to fascinate him and bring him to my feet." "And you succeeded," I interrupted huskily. "Yes, I succeeded," she went on, speaking slowly, almost mechanically. "I had set my mind upon victory, and I achieved it after weeks and weeks of striving, dreading always that you might discover the truth, and fearing lest my conduct should appear in your eyes too serious for forgiveness. The blow that I dreaded has now fallen," she cried, with a choking sob. "Dudley is dead, and I, compelled to speak the truth, have publicly acknowledged myself unworthy of your love." "Is it not best that I should know the truth?" I asked seriously. "You render your behaviour the more unpardonable by the absurd falsehoods you wish me to believe." "I do not wish you to believe any falsehoods," she cried resentfully, her bright eyes flashing as she glanced at me. "What I have now told you is the truth. I swear it before Heaven!" "You deliberately flirted with Dudley, with an object in view. Oh, no!" I laughed with contempt, "that is too lame a tale." "It is the truth," she said, looking me straight in the face, her nervous hands toying with her rings. "Even though you may believe ill of me, I have lost neither honour nor self-respect. I acted under compulsion, to achieve one object." "And I hope you have gained the mysterious end you had in view," I said, with bitter sarcasm. "Yes, I have," she replied, with an intenseness in her voice that surprised me. "I have gained my object even at risk of being discarded by you, Geoffrey, and being branded as a base adventuress." "Even at the cost of the life of the man you deceived?" I hazarded. She started at my words. Her pale lips trembled, and in her eyes was a strange look, as if haunted by some spectral fear. The effect of this remark was extraordinary, and I at once added,-- "Remember, you suspect that Dudley's death was not due to natural causes." "Suspect?" she cried. "I know he was foully murdered." "By whom?" I inquired, with breathless eagerness.