"I don't know that I said anything about the time that had passed since
the crime was committed," she answered, sharply. "What does the murder
matter to _us?_ I think Cecilia told me it happened about four years
since. Excuse me for noticing it, Mr. Morris--you seem to have some
interests of your own to occupy your attention. Why couldn't you say so
plainly when we came out here? I should not have asked you to help me,
in that case. Since my poor father's death, I have been used to fight
through my troubles by myself."

She rose, and looked at him proudly. The next moment her eyes filled
with tears.

In spite of her resistance, Alban took her hand. "Dear Miss Emily," he
said, "you distress me: you have not done me justice. Your interests
only are in my mind."

Answering her in those terms, he had not spoken as frankly as usual. He
had only told her a part of the truth.

Hearing that the woman whom they had just left had been landlady of an
inn, and that a murder had been committed under her roof, he was led to
ask himself if any explanation might be found, in these circumstances,
of the otherwise incomprehensible effect produced on Mrs. Rook by the
inscription on the locket.

In the pursuit of this inquiry there had arisen in his mind a monstrous
suspicion, which pointed to Mrs. Rook. It impelled him to ascertain
the date at which the murder had been committed, and (if the discovery
encouraged further investigation) to find out next the manner in which
Mr. Brown had died.

Thus far, what progress had he made? He had discovered that the date of
Mr. Brown's death, inscribed on the locket, and the date of the crime
committed at the inn, approached each other nearly enough to justify
further investigation.

In the meantime, had he succeeded in keeping his object concealed
from Emily? He had perfectly succeeded. Hearing him declare that her
interests only had occupied his mind, the poor girl innocently entreated
him to forgive her little outbreak of temper. "If you have any more
questions to ask me, Mr. Morris, pray go on. I promise never to think
unjustly of you again."

He went on with an uneasy conscience--for it seemed cruel to deceive
her, even in the interests of truth--but still he went on.

"Suppose we assume that this woman had injured your father in some
way," he said. "Am I right in believing that it was in his character to
forgive injuries?"

"Entirely right."

"In that case, his death may have