Each began to read, and for some little time unbroken silence reigned. Suddenly a sharp, gasping cry came from Italy’s lips, the paper rustled in her hands and slipped down upon the floor, her head fell back inertly against the chair, her face looking like ivory against the rich-hued silken draperies. Mrs. Murray sprang toward her with a cry of alarm, thinking from the inert pose and closed eyes that she had fainted. But as she touched the cold little hand she perceived that it was trembling, and then Italy moaned almost inaudibly: “Oh, this is terrible! terrible!” “What is it, my dear? Speak! You frighten me!” cried Mrs. Murray, pressing her hand eagerly. “Are you ill?” “No, no,” and the heavy eyes unclosed, and Italy feebly lifted her head. Her glance fell on the paper, and she murmured: “It is there!” “Something that you read, my child?” and Mrs. Murray picked up the paper and ran her eyes over the columns. She did not have to seek long. There it was in black headlines and blasting words: “At Last!--The Mystery of Ronald Vale’s Murder Solved at Last!--A Well-remembered Criminal Case Recalled to the Public Mind--Mrs. Vale Nobly Vindicated After a Martyrdom of Almost Fifteen Years--Confession of the Murderer, a Man Whose Life was Believed to be Spotless--He Lived Among us Fifteen Years, and Enjoyed the Confidence and Esteem of All. “This paper is the first, as always, to print the first statement regarding the new developments in a case that had in it all the elements of mystery, tragedy, and crime. One of our clever reporters, while strolling through the great, wicked city last night, gathered from the lips of a half-intoxicated sailor in a low saloon a startling story, whose truth he vouched for in the strongest terms.” There followed substantially the same story the sailor had told Mrs. Murray, with the addition that the sailor knew the contents of the letter, having heard it dictated to the surgeon by the dying lips of the murderer. Francis Murray was here held up to the execration of all, and the highly colored, sensational article expatiated glibly on the whole affair, and closed by tendering its sincerest sympathies to the shade of the departed Mrs. Vale, who was believed to have died abroad of a broken heart, leaving her young daughter to the guardianship of the wicked kinsman, in whom she had placed the most implicit faith. Oh, the agony of the mother’s heart as she read those words and realized that her beloved son, her idol, was thus held up to the execration of the whole world! “Let us bear it together!” moaned Italy, creeping into her arms with a desolate sob, and their tears mingled. The first passion of grief exhausted, Italy lifted her head, her eyes gleaming through tears like purple-dark pansies wet with rain, and cried indignantly: “Let us go at once to the editor of that paper--let us make him deny it all to-morrow!”