w it. This is no common
case of violence and the parties to it are not of the common order. Miss
Cumberland's virtue and social standing no one can question, while you
are the son of a man who has deservedly been regarded as an honour to the
town. You have been intending to marry Miss Cumberland?"

"Yes." I looked the man directly in the eye. "Our wedding-day was set."

"Did you love her? Pardon me; if I am to be of any benefit to you at this
crisis I must strike at the root of things. If you do not wish to
answer, say so, Mr. Ranelagh."

"I do wish." This was a lie, but what was I to do, knowing how dangerous
it would be for Carmel to have it publicly known where my affections were
really centred and what a secret tragedy of heart-struggle and jealous
passion underlay this open one of foul and murderous death. "I am in no
position to conceal anything from you. I did love Miss Cumberland. We
have been engaged for a year. She was a woman of fortune but I am not
without means of my own and could have chosen a penniless girl and still
been called prosperous."

"I see, and she returned your love?"

"Sincerely." Was the room light enough to reveal my guilty flush? She
had loved me only too well, too jealously, too absorbingly for her
happiness or mine.

"And the sister?"

It was gently but gravely put, and instantly I knew that our secret was
out, however safe we had considered it. This man was cognisant of it,
and if he, why not others! Why not the whole town! A danger which up to
this moment I had heard whispered only by the pines, was opening in a
gulf beneath our feet. Its imminence steadied me. I had kept my glance
on Coroner Perry, and I do not think it changed. My tone, I am quite
assured, was almost as quiet and grave as his as I made my reply in
these words:

"Her sister is her sister. I hardly think that either of us would be apt
to forget that. Have you heard otherwise, sir?"

He was prepared for equivocation, possibly for denial, but not for
attack. His manner changed and showed distrust and I saw that I had lost
rather than made by this venturous move.

"Is this your writing?" he suddenly asked, showing me a morsel of paper
which he had drawn from his vest pocket.

I looked, and felt that I now understood what the pines had been trying
to tell me for the last few hours. That compromising scrap of writing had
not been destroyed. It existed for her and my undoing! Then doubt came.
Fate could not jugg