in this matter was accounted for; but the tragedy itself was not. Why should Eleanore or Eleanore’s husband wish the death of a man whose bounty they believed would end with his life? But with Mary, the heiress, proved the wife!—I tell you, Mr. Raymond, it all hangs together now. You must never, in reckoning up an affair of murder like this, forget who it is that most profits by the deceased man’s death."
"But Eleanore's silence? her concealment of certain proofs and evidences in her own breast—how will you account for that? I can imagine a woman devoting herself to the shielding of a husband from the consequences of crime; but a cousin's husband, never."
Mr. Gryce put his feet very close together, and softly grunted. "Then you still think Mr. Clavering the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth?"
I could only stare at him in my sudden doubt and dread. "Still think?" I repeated.
"Mr. Clavering the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth?"
"Why, what else is there to think? You don't—you can't—suspect Eleanore of having deliberately undertaken to help her cousin out of a difficulty by taking the life of their mutual benefactor?"
"No," said Mr. Gryce; "no, I do not think Eleanore Leavenworth had any hand in the business."
"Then who—" I began, and stopped, lost in the dark vista that was opening before me.
"Who? Why, who but the one whose past deceit and present necessity demanded his death as a relief? Who but the beautiful, money-loving, man-deceiving goddess"
I leaped to my feet in my sudden horror and repugnance. "Do not mention the name! You are wrong; but do not speak the name."
