"You haven't seen a newspaper?"
She assured him their post would not arrive from Keswick for another
hour, and stood expectant.
"I wanted to tell you before any one else, because there are things to
explain. We're friends--Lydia?"
He approached her eagerly. His colour had leapt; but his eyes reassured.
"Always," she said simply, and she put her hand in his.
Then he told her. He saw her waver, and sink, ghost-like, on a chair. It
was clear enough that the news had for her no ordinary significance. His
heart knew pain--the reflex of a past anguish; only to be lost at once in
the desire to soothe and shield her.
"Mr. Faversham was there?" she asked him, trembling.
"He did not see the shot fired. The murderer rushing from the gallery
brushed past him as he was coming out of his room, and escaped."
"There had been a quarrel?"
He gave her in outline the contents of Undershaw's letter.
"He still inherits?" Her eyes, shone as he came to the climax of the
story--Faversham's refusal of the gems--Melrose's threat. The trembling
of her delicate mouth urged him for more--and yet more--light.
"Everything--land, money, collections--under the will made in August. You
see"--he added, sorely against his will, yet compelled, by the need of
protecting her from shock--"the opportuneness of the murder. Their
relations had been very bad for some time."
"Opportuneness?" She just breathed it. He put out his hand again, and
took hers.
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