n
the face and tell me whether you did not seek his life in Vienna, and
whether you did not fight with him on the sands at Boulogne. Oh, I know
you! It is you! It is you! And then you come down here and live alone,
waiting your chance. He is found foully murdered, and you are the only
man who could have done it. Ask you whether you be guilty? There is no
need, no need. Can anyone in their senses, knowing the story of your
past hate, doubt it for one moment? And yet, answer me if you can. Look
me in the face, and let me hear you lie, if you dare. Tell me that you
know nothing of my brother's death!"

He had stood like marble, with never a change in his face, while she had
poured out her passionate accusation. But when silence came, and she
waited for him to speak, he could not. A seal seemed set upon his lips.
He could not open them. He was silent.

A fearful glare of triumph blazed up in her eyes. She staggered back a
little, and leaned upon the table, with her hand clasped to her side.

"See, Helen," she cried, "is that innocence? O God! give me strength to
go on. I will see Mr. Thurwell. I will tell him everything. He shall
sign a warrant. Ah!"

A terrible scream rang through the room, and echoed through the house.
Mr. Thurwell and several of the servants came hurrying in. In the middle
of the floor Rachel Kynaston lay prostrate, her fingers grasping
convulsively at the empty air, and an awful look in her face. Helen was
on her knees by her side, and Mr. Brown stood in the background,
irresolute whether to stay or leave.

They crowded round her, but she waved them off, and grasping Helen's
wrist, dragged her down till their heads nearly touched.

"Helen," she moaned, "I am dying. Swear to me that you will avenge
Geoffrey's murder. That man did it. His name--his name----"

Suddenly her grasp relaxed, and Helen reeled back fainting into her
father's arms.

"It is a fit," some one murmured.

But it was death.

CHAPTER XI

LEVY & SON, PRIVATE AGENTS

"Anything in the letters, guv'nor?"

"Nothing so far, Ben, my boy," answered a little old gentleman, who was
methodically opening a pile of envelopes, and carefully scrutinizing the
contents of each before arranging them in separate heaps. "Nothing much
yet. A letter from a despairing mother, entreating us to find her lost
son. Description given, payment--tick! Won't do. Here's a note from Mr.
Wallis about his wife's being at the theater the other nig