to be held; there is some slight evidence to
prove that the blow, or push, or scuffle that
caused the fall, was provoked by this poor
fellow's half-tipsy impertinence to a young
lady, walking with the man who pushed the
deceased over the edge of the platform. This
much was observed by some one on the platform,
who, however, thought no more about
the matter, as the blow seemed of slight consequence.
There is also some reason to
identify the lady with yourself; in which
case—"

"I was not there," said Margaret, still
keeping her expressionless eyes fixed on his
face, with the unconscious look of a sleepwalker.

The inspector bowed, but did not speak.
The lady standing before him showed no
emotion, no fluttering fear, no anxiety, no
desire to end the interview. The information
he had received was very vague; one of the
porters rushing out to be in readiness for the
train had seen a scuffle, at the other end of
the platform, between Leonards and a gentleman
accompanied by a lady, but heard no
noise; and before the train had got to its full
speed after starting, he had been almost
knocked down by the headlong run of the
enraged half-intoxicated Leonards, swearing
and cursing awfully. He had not thought
any more about it, till his evidence was
routed out by the inspector, who, on making
some farther inquiry at the railroad station,
had heard from the station master that a
young lady and gentleman had been there
about that hour—the lady remarkably handsome—
and said, by some grocer's assistant
present at the time, to be a Miss Hale, living
at Crampton, whose family dealt at his shop.
There was no certainty that the one lady and
gentleman were identical with the other pair,
but there was great probability. Leonards
himself had gone, half mad with rage and
pain, to the nearest gin-palace for comfort;
and his tipsy words had not been attended to
by the busy waiters there; they, however,
remembered his starting up and cursing himself
for not having sooner thought of the electric
telegraph, for some purpose unknown;
and they believed that he left with the idea of
going there. On his way, overcome by pain
or drink, he had lain down in the road, where
the police had found him and taken him to
the Infirmary: there he had never recovered
sufficient consciousness to give any
distinct account of his fall, although once or
twice he had had glimmerings of sense sufficient
to make the authorities send for the nearest
magistrate, in hopes that he might be able to
take down the dying man's deposition of the
cause of his death. But when the magistrate
had come, he was rambling about being at
sea, and mixing up names of captains and
lieutenants in an indistinct manner with those
of his fellow porters at the railway; and his
last words were a curse on the "Cornish
trick:" which had, he said, made him a hundred
pounds poorer than he ought to have
been. The inspector ran all this over in his
mind—the vagueness of the evidence to prove
that Margaret had been at the station—the
unflinching calm denial which she gave to
such a supposition. She stood awaiting his
next word with a composure that appeared
supreme.

"Then, madam, I have your denial that
you were the lady accompanying the gentleman
who struck the blow, or gave the push, which
caused the death of this poor man?"

A quick sharp pain went through Margaret's
brain. "Oh God! that I knew Frederick
were safe!" A deep observer of
human countenances might have seen the
momentary agony shoot out of her great
gloomy eyes, like the torture of some creature
brought to bay. But the inspector was
a very keen, though not a very deep observer.
He was a little struck notwithstanding by the
form of the answer, which sounded like a
mechanical repetition of her first reply—not
changed and modified in shape so as to meet
his last question.

"I was not there," said she, slowly and
heavily. And all this time she never closed
her eyes, or ceased from that glassy, dreamlike
stare. His quick suspicions were
aroused by this dull echo of her former
denial. It was as if she had forced herself
to one untruth, and had been stunned out of
all power of varying it.

He put up his book of notes in a very
deliberate manner. Then he looked up; she
had not moved any more than if she had
been some great Egyptian statue.

"I hope you will not think me impertinent
when I say that I may have to call on you again.
I may have to summon you to appear on the
inquest, and prove an alibi, if my witnesses"
(it was but one who had recognised her)
"persist in deposing to your presence at the
unfortunate event." He looked at her
sharply. She was still perfectly quiet—no
change of colour, or darker shadow of guilt,
on her proud face. He thought to have seen
her wince: he did not know Margaret Hale.
He was a little abashed by her regal composure.
It must have been a mistake of
identity. He went on:

"It is very unlikely, ma'am, that I shall
have to do anything of the kind. I
hope you will excuse me for doing what
is only my duty, although it may appear
impertinent."

Margaret bowed her head as he went
towards the door. Her lips were stiff and
dry. She could not speak even the common
words of farewell. But suddenly she walked
forwards, and opened the study door, and
preceded him to the door of the house, which
she threw wide open for his exit. She kept
her eyes upon him in the same dull, fixed
manner, until he was fairly out of the house.
She shut the door, and went half-way into
the study; then turned back, as if moved by