questions put to her at the inquest, comprehend it all without any explanation from me. But what you may not know is this, that unless she is speedily relieved from the suspicion which, justly or not, has attached itself to her name, the consequences which such suspicion entails must fall upon her, and"
"Good God!" she cried; "you do not mean she will be"
"Subject to arrest? Yes."
It was a blow. Shame, horror, and anguish were in every line of her white face. "And all because of that key!" she murmured.
"Key? How did you know anything about a key?"
"Why," she cried, flushing painfully; "I cannot say; did n’t you tell me?"
"No," I returned.
"The papers, then?"
"The papers have never mentioned it."
She grew more and more agitated. "I thought every one knew. No, I did not, either," she avowed, in a sudden burst of shame and penitence. "I knew it was a secret; but—oh, Mr. Raymond, it was Eleanore herself who told me."
"Eleanore?"
"Yes, that last evening she was here; we were together in the drawing-room."
"What did she tell?"
"That the key to the library had been seen in her possession."
I could scarcely conceal my incredulity. Eleanore, conscious of the suspicion with which her cousin regarded her, inform that cousin of a fact calculated to add weight to that suspicion? I could not believe this.
