Violet turned pale as she read it. Her lips quivered. All the whole scene passed again before her eyes—the terrible scene in the dining-room, where the wedding breakfast was laid out—the pool of blood upon the carpet—Jason’s head lying helplessly against the back of the armchair—the ghastly wound, upon the brow. Poor girl! Swift events and the change of life, and her interest in Agnes, had in a manner chased away the memory of that gloomy hour. Now it came back to her with full force, and she reproached herself with a too ready forgetfulness—reproached herself with neglecting the sacred duty of endeavouring to discover the murderer. To her, the facts given by Aymer—the interest, the motive—seemed irresistible. Not for a moment did she question his conclusion. She thought of Marese as she had seen him for a few hours: she remembered his start as he heard her name—it was the start of conscious guilt, there was no doubt. A great horror fell upon her—a horror only less great than had fallen that miserable wedding-day. She had been in the presence of her father’s murderer—she had eaten at the same table—she had shaken hands with him. Above the loathing and detestation, the hatred and abhorrence, there rose a horror—almost a fear. Next to being in the presence of the corpse, being in the presence of the murderer was most awful. She could not stay at The Towers—she could not remain, when at any hour he might come, with blood upon his conscience if not upon his actual hands—the blood of her beloved and kindly father. A bitter dislike to The Towers fell upon her—a hatred of the place. It seemed as if she had been entrapped into a position, where she was compelled to associate with the one person of all others whom love, duty, religion—all taught her to avoid. She must go—no matter where. She had a little money—the remnant left after all. Jason’s debts had been paid—only some fifty pounds, but it was enough. Mr Merton had sent it to her with a formal note, after the affairs were wound up. At first the idea occurred to her that she would go back and live at The Place which was still hers; but no, that could not be—she could not, could not live there; the spirit of the dead would cry out to her from the very walls. She would go to some small village where living was cheap; where she could take a little cottage; where her fifty pounds, and the few pounds she received for the rent of the meadow at The Place, would keep her—till Aymer succeeded, and could get her a home. She hesitated to write to him—she half decided to keep her new address a secret; for she knew that if he understood her purpose he would deprive himself of necessaries to give her luxuries.