"No, no!" she cried, greatly agitated. "I saw the two men who did it. I
saw them in the light of Noah's lanthorn. Neither of them was young
Wentworth."
I at once grew interested and asked her to describe the men she saw.
"No, no, no!" she cried vehemently, almost hysterically. I thought she
was going to weep, so I said in haste:--
"Don't weep, Frances! You must forget."
She looked quickly up to me and answered: "I am not weeping. There is not
a tear in me. I have wept until I am dry."
"But your grief is unreasonable," I returned. "Roger was your friend, I
know, but his death does not call for so great sorrowing."
"No, no, it is not that, Baron Ned. You don't know. I can't tell you.
Please do not speak of this terrible affair again."
I supposed it was her horror of the tragedy that had wrought upon her
nerves, usually so strong, so I dropped the subject, and it was not
brought up again until after many weeks, when circumstances made it
necessary for me to break silence.
* * * * *
While Hamilton was away, the murder of Roger Wentworth was freely
discussed in London and was brought to the king's notice by a deputation
of citizens who told his Majesty very plainly that certain of his friends
were under suspicion.
The king pretended that he had not heard of the crime, expressed his
grief, was moved to tears by the recital, promised to do all in his
power to bring the offenders to justice, and dismissed the Londoners
with many brave, virtuous words.
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