"
Notwithstanding the warm sunshine, she suddenly shivered.
Francis took her hands in his. They were cold and lifeless.
"I know that one thing, dear," he told her quietly.
She looked at him stonily. There was a questioning fear in her
eyes.
"You know--"
"I know that your fattier killed Oliver Hilditch."
She suddenly broke out into a stream of words. There was passion
in her tone and in her eyes. She was almost the accuser.
"My father was right, then!" she exclaimed. "He told me this
morning that he believed that it was to you or to your friend at
Scotland Yard that Walter had told his story. But you don't know
you don't know how terrible the temptation was how--you see I say
it quite coolly--how Oliver Hilditch deserved to die. He was
trusted by my father in South America and he deceived him, he
forged the letters which induced me to marry him. It was part of
his scheme of revenge. This was the first time we had any of us
met since. I told my father the truth that afternoon. He knew
for the first time how my marriage came about. My husband had
prayed me to keep silent. I refused. Then he became like a
devil. We were there, we three, that night after you left, and
Francis, as I live, if my father had not killed him, I should
have!"
"There was a time when I believed that you had," he reminded her.
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