"I have had enough to make me crazy," she said bitterly, "let me go."

"Not till you explain your mysterious behaviour. No"—he grasped her wrists tighter as she strove to release herself—"not till you explain."

"Ah!" she cried out shrilly, "will you murder me also?"

Lister suddenly released her wrists and fell back a pace. "Murder you also?" he repeated. "Am I then in the habit of murdering people?"

"My father. You—you——"

"Well, go on," said he, as the word stuck in her throat.

"Oh"—she wrung her hands helplessly—"I saw you; I saw you."

"Saw me what?" His voice became impatient and almost fierce.

"I saw you enter the house—this house."

"Saw me—enter this house? When?"

"On the night my father was murdered—at eight o'clock."

"What the devil are you talking about?" cried Cyril roughly. "I was in London at eight o'clock on that night, and went to Paris the next morning. I never heard of the murder, as I saw no newspapers. When I returned last night I read the account of the inquest in the evening papers, and I came down this morning to comfort you. I really think trouble has turned your head, Bella."

The girl stared at him in astonishment. Even though she had spoken so very plainly, Cyril did not seem to comprehend that she was accusing him of having committed a dastardly crime. Her heart suddenly grew light. Perhaps, after all, she was mistaken, and—and—"You can prove your innocence?"

"My innocence of what, in heaven's name?" he cried angrily.

"Of—of—the—the—murder," she faltered.

Lister stared, and scarcely could believe his ears. "You are not serious?"

"Oh, my dear:" she sobbed, "I wish I were not."

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