"It is as easy to credit that," answered Dwight Pollard, with an emphasis which showed that he, if not I, felt the force of this sarcasm, "as it would be to believe that Mr. Barrows would return to a spot so fraught with hideous memories, except under the influence of a purpose which made him blind to all but its accomplishment. The fact that he died _there_, proves to my mind that no other will than his own plunged him anew into that dreadful vat." "Ah! and so you are going to ascribe his death to suicide?" she inquired, with a curl of her lip that was full of disdain. "Yes," he sternly responded with no signs of wavering now, though her looks might well have stung the stoutest soul into some show of weakness. "It is a wise stroke," she laughed, with indescribable emphasis. "It has so much in Mr. Barrows' life and character to back it. And may I ask," she went on, with a look that included Guy Pollard's silent and contemptuous figure in its scope, "whether you have anything but words wherewith to impress your belief upon the public? I have heard that judge and jury like facts, or, at the least, circumstantial proof that a man's denial is a true one." "And proofs we have!" It was Guy Pollard who spoke this time, and with an icy self-possession that made her shiver in spite of herself. "Proofs?" she repeated. "That we were not near the mill the night before Mr. Barrows was found. We were both out of town, and did not return till about the time the accident was discovered." "Ah!" was her single sarcastic rejoinder; but I saw--we all saw--that the blow had told, bravely as she tried to hide it. "You, can make nothing by accusing us of this crime," he continued; "and if I might play the part of a friend to you, I would advise you not to attempt it." And his cold eye rested for a moment on hers before he turned and walked away to the other end of the room. The look, the action, was full of contempt, but she did not seem to feel it. Following him with her gaze for a minute, she murmured, quietly: "We will see"; then turning her look upon Dwight and myself, added slowly: "I think _you_ are effectually separated at all events," and was gone almost without our realizing how or where. I did not linger long behind. What I said or what they said I cannot remember. I only know that in a few minutes I too was flying along the highway, eager for the refuge which my solitary home offered me. Events had rushed upon me too thickly and too fast. I felt ill as I passed the threshold of my room, and was barely conscious when a few hours later the landlady came in to see why I had not made my appearance at the supper-table. XIV. CORRESPONDENCE. Letters, my Lord. --HAMLET.