"You know--Faversham has enemies?"
She nodded.
"I've been one myself," he said frankly. "I believe you knew it. But this
thing's brought me up sharp. One may think as one likes of Faversham's
conduct--but you knew--and I know--that he's not the man to pay another
man to commit murder!"
"And that's what they'll say?" The colour had rushed back into her
cheeks.
"That's what some fool _might_ say, because of the grudge against him.
Well, now, we've got to find the murderer!" He rose, speaking in his most
cheerful and practical voice, "I'm going on to see what the police have
been doing. The inquest will probably begin to-morrow. But I wanted to
prevent your being startled by this horrible news. Trust me to let you
know--and to help--all I can."
Then for a moment, he seemed to lose his self-possession. He stood before
her awkwardly conscious--a moral trespasser--who might have been passing
bounds. But it was her turn to be frank. She came and put both her hands
on his arm--looking up--drawing her breath with difficulty.
"Harry, I'm going to tell you. I ought to have told you more that
night--but how could I? It was only just then I knew--that I cared.
A little later Mr. Faversham asked me to marry him, and I refused,
because--because of this money. I couldn't take it--I begged him not
to. Never mind!" She threw her head back, gulping down tears. "He
thought me unreasonable. But--"
"He refused--and left you!" cried Tatham, drinking in the sweetness of
her pale beauty, as Orpheus might have watched the vanishing Eurydice.
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