Jessica turned pale. A sudden chill feeling
seemed to strike upon her heart, as
though the end of the delightful paradise
in which she had been living so long was
now at hand.

"Impossible," said Conway, warmly.
"No one could have seen it; unless you
mean to say that they had a share in that
terrible business."

"Aye, perhaps so," said Dudley. "For
if any one had been with her, it would be
strangely suspicious if they did not come
forward."

"It would be, certainly," said Con way.
"But have you anything to go upon? Was
this mentioned to that poor Sir Charles?
Ah, Dudley, I am not without repentance
for my part in all that, and have suffered, I
can tell you."

"I can acquit you, Conway," said the
other. "I say so cordially. There were
marks and footprints discovered. If that
Edgar Allan Poe were alive—But come
to my room to-night, and I will tell you
more."

"But why not go into it now, with Jessica
present? Her quick wit will help you. Ah!
But I forgot."

"I thought," said Jessica, excitedly,
"you promised me that we were not to talk
of this?"

"You are quite right. But what Dudley
tells us alters the case. It is very strange
that we should both, Dudley you and I
have had the same idea."

"No," said Dudley, "I can understand
why Mrs. Conway should not like the subject.
I do, though. It is my whole life,
being, hope, and comfort. Once that
accomplished, and I care not what becomes
of me."

He left them.

"A strange being," said Conway. " Yet
he will work that out, depend on it."

"Oh, but why should you have to do
with it, or with him? He can mean you
no good; certainly not to me. Do let us
leave him here—leave this place. I tell
you misery will come of it."

"But why?" said he, looking at her
fixedly. "Give me a reason, Jessica. You
are so sensible, it is sure to be a sound one.
Is it fancy, or mere feeling, as they call it?"

She hung down her head. Something
whispered her: "Now is the time—a full
confidence, and it will save much hereafter."
But then to let him go from her to that
man, then hear his gloss upon it!

Conway waited. "I knew it was only
a fancy. No, dearest, I am interested in this,
recollect. I owe something to the memory
of that poor girl."

He left her. With a sort of terror she
followed him with her eyes. Now she had
time, and could think calmly what she
should do. She must decide before he
returned. There was something of meaning
in that Dudley's behaviour; his stopping
on his journey, his looks at her, and his
hints. It did seem as though he wished to
raise up some cloud between her and her
husband—to get some strong net entangled
about her, in which he could drag her back
from him. Her old, calm sense came to
her aid. Was not all this a mere difficulty
of the imagination, in which she was
entangling herself of her own act? It was
her own foolish finessing.

Conway came back, musing. " That
Dudley is wonderful," he said. "It shows
what purpose will do for a man of a dull,
heavy nature. He has certainly made out
some strange things enough to justify him
in a suspicion that she died in a different
way from what was given out."

"Oh, surely not. You cannot think
that—you must not. Oh, it would be too
horrible. It is one of this man's morbid,
moody imaginings."

"His facts are simple enough. But
what is so strange, they bear out exactly
the theory I had in my mind. What would
your theory be?"

"I have none. I don't wish to have any.
Oh, you promised me that we were to leave
the subject for ever and ever."

Again Conway looked at her with
surprise. "My dear Jessica, this surprises
me a little in you, who were so firm and
rational about all things. Your old, bitter
vendetta with this poor girl was too girlish
to be elevated into the serious matter that
you would make it. Neither would I show
this singular repulsion to the subject before
people; for you see, Dudley remarked it,
and he is morbid enough as you say to
turn it to some purpose of his own. Now,
exert yourself, and your firm self, as of old,
and tell me what is your speculation, and
I shall tell you ours."

Now was the opportunity. Make a clean
breast of it, according to the old phrase,
and all might be well. But the deception
—he could never forgive that, all she could
say or do. Again rushed in her pride, and
she uttered words that long after she was
to regret. It was the final step into the
quagmire.

"I can say nothing. I dislike the subject,
and it is unkind to speak of it."