"Arrested? How dare you!" Mrs. Snow was furious. "How can I be arrested when the murder of your father took place twenty-five years ago? It is ridiculous." "Oh no; this second murder has to do with the first, so that will bring the death of my father up-to-date. Speak out, or I go at once to Brighton, and then----" "You will not dare----" gasped the vicaress in a cowed tone. "I give you three minutes to make up your mind, Mrs. Snow." "I don't want one minute. I shall tell you all I know--all I believe to be true: your mother is guilty." "Was guilty, since she is dead," corrected Beatrice quietly; "and I do not believe one word. You hated her, in spite of the fact that she was--as you say--your dearest friend." "You are right!" cried Mrs. Snow with hysterical vehemence; "I did hate her--always--always! She took from me the man I loved. Yes, you may look and look, but I loved George Hall, your father, with all my heart. I was only a governess, poor and plain; your mother was a planter's daughter, rich and beautiful. We were at school together. I was her companion afterwards; but I always detested her, and now----" "Now you detest her daughter," finished Beatrice. "You have your mother's beauty," said Mrs. Snow, and cast a venomous look on the girl's pale face. "So this is the reason you kept away from The Camp, and spoke of me to others so bitterly as you did?" "Yes. You may as well know the truth: I hate you. You have the beauty of your mother, who stole George Hall away from me. But you have not the money; I saw to that." "How could you prevent my inheriting the money? I suppose you allude to Mr. Alpenny's fortune." "Because I told Mr. Alpenny if he left the money to you that I would accuse him of being an accomplice of Mrs. Hall in her murder of the Colonel. Miss Hedge, or Miss Hall, or whatever you like to call yourself, I hate you so much that I would like to put the rope round your neck." "Yet I am the daughter of the man you loved!" said Beatrice, wondering at this bitterness. "All the more reason I should hate you. His daughter--yes, and the daughter of Amy Hall, whom I loathed with all my soul." "If so, why did you not accuse her of the murder?" "I gave her a chance of repentance." "No, Mrs. Snow, that was not the reason. You did not tell the police, because you could not prove your accusation. For all I know--for all the police know--you may have murdered my father yourself." Mrs. Snow laughed scornfully. "I murder George Hall? Why, I loved the very ground he trod on. You can prove nothing against me." "Nor can you prove anything against my mother." "Can I not?" Mrs. Snow rose and flung her arms about exultingly. "I was stopping at the Grange. I was lying awake on that night, wondering when my misery would end." "What misery?" "The misery of loving your father, and of seeing him with your mother. But I sowed dissension between them: they were never happy." "You wicked woman!"