You are my wife,
and I am true to you. I have never loved but one woman, and she is dead
to me."
The allusion to the old love was extremely unfortunate just at this time,
for Mrs. Trevlyn was just sore enough to be deeply wounded by it, and
angry enough to throw back taunt for taunt.
"A man of honor!" she ejaculated, scornfully. "Honor, forsooth! Archer
Trevlyn, do you call yourself that?"
"I do; and I defy any man living to prove the contrary!" answered Archer,
proudly.
"You defy any _man_! Do you, also, defy any woman? Tell me, if you can,
whose glove this is?" And she pulled from her bosom the blood-stained
glove, and held it up before him.
He looked at it, flushed crimson, and trembled perceptibly. She laughed
scornfully.
"Archer Trevlyn, your guilt is known to me! It has been known to me ever
since the fatal night on which Paul Linmere met his death. I was there
that night, by the lonely graveyard. I saw you kiss _her_ hand! I heard
the dreadful blow, listened to the smothered groan, and saw through the
gloom the guilty murderer as he fled from the scene of crime! When the
victim was discovered, I went first, because I feared he might have left
behind him something that might fix his identity--and so he had. This
glove I found lying upon the ground, by the side of the wretched
victim--marked with the name of the murderer-stained with the blood of
the murdered! I hid it away; I would have died sooner than it should have
been torn from me, because I was foolish enough to love this man, whose
hand was red with murder! Archer Trevlyn, you took the life of Paul
Linmere, and thus removed the last obstacle that stood between you and
Margaret Harrison!"
Trevlyn's face had grown white as death while she had been speaking, but
it was more like the white heat of passion, than like the pallor of
detected guilt.
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