said, the light in the carriage was very
dim, and the shadow was deepest where Lucille lay. I looked there
instinctively. She must have moved in her sleep, for her face was turned
away from me; and the cloak I had put so carefully about her had partly
fallen off. But she slept on still. Only soundly, very soundly; she
scarcely seemed to breathe. And--_did_ she breathe?

"A ghastly fear ran through my blood, and froze it. I understood why I
had wakened. In my nostrils was an awful odor that I knew well enough. I
bent over her; I touched her. Her face was very cold; her eyes glared
glassily at me; my hands were wet with something. My hands were wet with
blood--her blood!

"I tore away the blind from the lamp, and then I could see that my wife
of a week lay there stabbed straight to the heart--dead--dead beyond
doubting; murdered in her sleep."

Devereux's stern, low voice shook ever so little as he spoke those last
words; and we both sat very silent after them for a good while. Only
when he could trust his utterance again he went on.

"A curious piece of devilry, wasn't it? That child--whom had she ever
harmed? Who could hate her like this? I remember I thought that, in a
dull, confused sort of way, when I found myself alone in that carriage
with her lying dead on the cushions before me. _Alone_ with her--you
understand? It was confusing.

"I pass over what immediately followed. The express came duly to a halt;
and then I called people to me, and--and the Paris express went on
without that particular carriage.

"The inquiry began before some local authority next day. Very little
came of it. What could come of it, unless they had convicted _me_ of the
murder of this child I would have given my own life to save?

"They might have done that at home; but they knew better here, and
didn't. They couldn't find me the actual assassin, however; though I
believe they did their best. All they found was his weapon, which he
most purposely have left behind. I asked for this, and got it. It gave
their police no clue; and it gave me none. But I had a fancy for it.

"It was a plain, double-edged, admirably-tempered dagger--a very
workmanlike article indeed. On the cross hilt of it I swore one day that
I would live thenceforth for one thing alone--the discovery of the
murderer of old D'Avray's child, whom I had promised him to care for
before all. When I had found this man, whoever he was, I also swore that
I would kill him. Kil