"That Eva's dream was true; that her father was lying dead by the spring of the Red Deeps." Mrs. Hill looked still more searchingly at him. "You saw that?" "I did--in the twilight. I reached there before it grew very dark. I found the body, and, as in Eva's dream, I recognised it by the gloved right hand----" "The wooden hand," moaned Mrs. Hill, rocking herself. "Oh, heavens!" "Yes! The whiteness of the glove caught my eyes. From what Eva had told me, I had no need to guess who was the dead man. The wooden hand explained all. The corpse was that of Strode, shot through the heart." "But there was a slight flesh wound on the arm, remember," said Mrs. Hill. "I know, but I did not notice that at the time," said Allen quickly. "At first, mother, I intended to give the alarm, and I was hurrying back to Wargrove to tell Wasp and Jackson, when I caught sight of a revolver lying in the mud. I took it up--there was a name on the silver plate on the butt. It was----" Allen sank his voice still lower. "It was my own name." "The revolver was yours?" "Yes. I brought it with me from South America, and kept it in my portmanteau, since a weapon is not needed in England. But one day I took it out to shoot some birds and left it in this library. I never thought about it again, or I should have put it away. The next sight I got of it was in the Red Deeps, and I thought----" "That your father took it to shoot Strode!" burst out Mrs. Hill. "You can't be certain of that--you can't be certain. No, no, Lawrence!" again she used the unaccustomed name. "Lawrence would never commit a murder--so good--so kind--no, no." Allen looked surprised. He never expected his mother to stand up for his father in this way. Hill, so far as the son had seen, was not kind to any one, and he certainly was not good. Why Mrs. Hill, who seemed to have no particular affection for him, should defend him in this way puzzled the young man. She saw the effect her speech had produced and beckoned Allen to sit down. "You must know all," she said--"you must know how I came to marry your father; and then you will know why I speak as I do, Allen." She laid a trembling hand on his shoulder. "You never thought I was fond of your father?" Allen looked embarrassed. "Well, no, mother. I thought you tolerated him. You have strength to rule the house and the whole county if you chose to exert it, but you let my father indulge in his whims and fancies, and allow him to speak to you, as he certainly should not do. Oftentimes I have been inclined to interfere when hearing how disrespectfully he speaks, but you have always either touched me, or have given me a look." "I would let no one lay a finger on your father, Allen, no one--let alone his son. I don't love your father, I never did, but"--she drew herself up--"I respect him."