yed before, that Heaven would deny
some of its cruelty to my darling. In the abandonment of my
supplication, I was ready to fling the secret from me and forgive
all, to forgive my father's murderer, my life-long enemy, and let him
go unsought, rather than give up Claire. Yet as I prayed, my
entreaties and my tears went up to no compassionate God, but beat
themselves upon the adamantine face of Dead Man's Rock that still
rose inexorable between me and Heaven.

That night the crowd that gathered in the Coliseum to see the new
play, went away angry and disappointed; for Clarissa Lambert was not
acting. Another actress took her part--but how differently! And all
the while she, for whose sake they had come, was on her knees
wrestling with a grimmer tragedy than "Francesca," with no other
audience than the angels of pity.

Twenty-four hours had passed, and found me hastening towards Old
Kensington; for in my pocket lay a note bearing only the words
"Come at 3.30--Claire," and on my heart rested a load of suspense
unbearable. For many minutes beforehand, I paced up and down outside
the house in an agony, and as my watch pointed to the half-hour,
knocked and was admitted.

Mrs. Luttrell met me in the passage. She seemed most terribly white
and worn, so that I was astonished when she simply said, "Claire is
slightly unwell, and in fact could not act last night, but she wishes
to see you for some reason."

Wondering why Claire's mother should look so strangely if she guessed
nothing of what had happened, but supposing illness to be the reason,
I stopped for an instant to ask.

"Am I pale?" she answered. "It is nothing--nothing--do not take any
notice of it. I am rather weaker than usual to-day, that is all--a
mere nothing. You will find Claire in the drawing-room there."
And so she left me.

I knocked at the drawing-room door, and hearing a faint voice inside,
entered. As I did so, Claire rose to meet me. She was very pale,
and the dark circles around her eyes told of a long vigil; but her
manner at first was composed and even cold.

"Claire!" I cried, and stretched out my hands.

"Not yet," she said, and motioned me to a chair. "I sent for you
because I have been thinking of--of--what happened yesterday, and I
want you to tell me all; the whole story from beginning to end."

"But--"

"There is no 'but' in the case, Jasper. I am Janet Railton, and you
say that my father killed yours. Tell me how it wa