"It is dreadful to come to such conclusions," proceeded Mrs. Belden, "and nothing but her own words written in her own hand would ever have driven me to them, but"
"Pardon me," I interrupted; "but you said in the beginning of this interview that you did not believe Mary herself had any direct hand in her uncle’s murder. Are you ready to repeat that assertion?"
"Yes, yes, indeed. Whatever I may think of her influence in inducing it, I never could imagine her as having anything to do with its actual performance. Oh, no! oh, no! whatever was done on that dreadful night, Mary Leavenworth never put hand to pistol or ball, or even stood by while they were used; that you may be sure of. Only the man who loved her, longed for her, and felt the impossibility of obtaining her by any other means, could have found nerve for an act so horrible."
"Then you think"
"Mr. Clavering is the man? I do: and oh, sir, when you consider that he is her husband, is it not dreadful enough?"
"It is, indeed," said I, rising to conceal how much I was affected by this conclusion of hers.
Something in my tone or appearance seemed to startle her. "I hope and trust I have not been indiscreet," she cried, eying me with something like an incipient distrust. "With this dead girl lying in my house, I ought to be very careful, I know, but"
"You have said nothing," was my earnest assurance as I edged towards the door in my anxiety to escape, if but for a moment, from an atmosphere that was stifling me. "No one can blame you for anything you have either said or done to-day. But"—and here I paused
