“Perhaps I have done wrong to keep the secret so long,” she said. “I did not want to betray Mrs. Dunn; that is why I kept silent.” “Isabel, I always said that Craig Severn was a bad man. I heard it before you married him, but you would not listen to me,” cried her mother almost exultantly. But the stricken widow turned upon her with such reproachful eyes that she could say no more. Then Italy bent before her pleadingly. “Will you take back your unkind words now?” she begged wistfully. “Oh, Italy, forgive me, dear, for my heart is broken.” And Isabel burst into a passion of tears. They led her gently to her own room, to wrestle with her terrible sorrow, while the others agreed to keep silent over what had just passed until Mrs. Severn had decided whether she would prosecute the murderess. Every one wondered why Mrs. Dunn had wished to kill Craig Severn, until clever Emmett said: “I have a plausible theory. Perhaps she saw only his back and believed it was Percy Seabright. She was madly jealous of him, you all know, and perhaps her jealousy led her to go to that house to look for him. Seeing him in company with a beautiful young girl, perhaps drove her to murderous fury. Yet I hope Mrs. Severn will not make it public for the sake of her relatives, especially sweet Alexie, whom we all admire and love. It would be very sad for her to hear this story on returning from her wedding-tour.” CHAPTER XXXI. THE WAGES OF SIN. On the next day Percy Seabright’s trial was continued. The reading of the diary was resumed by Mr. Gardner. Surely no one but a madman would have criminated himself like this, by writing down the details of all his wicked deeds. Everything was written there--the murder of Ronald Vale, the hasty flight to New York, the hurried return, the attendance on Mrs. Vale’s trial for murder, the dastardly persecution of the hapless widow that he had begun by telling Francis Murray a slanderous story, pretending that she was in love with himself. With ghoulish glee he exulted over the misery of the woman who had come between himself and Ronald Vale, explaining how his base anonymous letters had hounded her from place to place and made her life a torture. Then the coming of Italy Vale to Winthrop was dwelt on. Foiled for once by the girl’s plans, he believed Mrs. Vale dead at last, and transferred his hatred to her daughter. The discovery that Italy was on the track of her father’s murderer filled him with rage and dismay. He felt certain that unless he could compass her death she would track him down, for the soul of a heroine beat in her breast, and he instinctively recognized the force of her strong character.