"I know it is, but I can't help it. I have southern blood in my veins, and I never forgive. I am glad your father told you the truth--it saves me from having to repeat a very painful story. That poor uncle of yours told me all about it, and how Gilbert had deceived and ill-treated his wife. I asked my husband, and he denied the story; but I saw the woman myself and made certain it was true. Then I hated Gilbert. Not for that only--there were other things. Before he married me, and after, he deceived me. I could have taken his punishment into my own hands, but I felt sure that Heaven would check his wicked career. But to go on with my story. That night I got a note from your uncle telling me that his wife was dead. I saw Gilbert in the library and showed him the letter. It was just before he went out. I reminded him that the man--and a madman at that--was hanging about the place. The boy who brought the letter had told me so, and I warned him against going out. He laughed at me, and was most insulting. Then he went, and I never saw him again until his body was brought in. I knew then that the vengeance of Heaven had fallen!" Brenda looked at her with a white face. "What do you mean?" she asked in a whisper. "Child, can you not guess? It was Robert who had killed him!" "Impossible!" cried Brenda. "My father found my uncle and took him home with him. At the time of the murder Uncle Robert was in our cottage." "Is this true?" said the widow, and a bright color came into her face. "Then who was the man talking to Gilbert in the library? There was some one with him just before nine o'clock. I was going to the Rectory to meet Harold about your business, and I went to the library to see if Gilbert had come back. I was afraid of Robert Scarse and of what he might do, half crazed as he was by his wife's death. Little as I loved my husband, I did not want that to happen. The door of the room was locked, but I heard voices. I went out without thinking any more about it. Oh, I swear to you, Brenda, that I have always believed it was your uncle who killed him! Who was it then? The revolver!--ah! and Van Zwieten has it!" She jumped up and clasped her hands. "I see! I know! I know!" "What?" asked the girl, rising in alarm. "Never mind--never mind. I will tell you soon. Go now, Brenda, and leave me to see Van Zwieten. Oh, I know how to manage him now!" "Is it him you mean? "He is worse than a murderer," Lady Jenny cried. "He is a spy!" "I was sure of it. But how do you know?" "I know; and I can't tell you how. As to the murder, he has to do with that too. I believe he did it himself." "But how do you know?" repeated Brenda. "How do you know?" "No matter. I am sure he fired that shot, and I can prove it." "Prove it, and hang him!" cried Brenda, and there was bitter hatred in her voice.