You were in love
with Miss Harrison. She was under a solemn obligation to marry Mr.
Linmere--yet she loved you. Nothing save his death could release her.
You were, then, at night in a lonely graveyard, where none of your kin
were slumbering. There, at that hour, the murder was done, and after its
commission, you stole forth silently, guiltily. By the side of the
murdered man, was found your glove, stained with his blood; and a little
way from his dead body, a handkerchief, bearing the single initial 'A.'
Whose name commences with that letter? Could anything be clearer or more
conclusive?"
"And you believe me guilty?"
"I do."
He took a step toward her. She never forgot the dreadful look upon his
face.
"I scorn to make any explanation. I might, perhaps, clear myself of this
foul accusation, but I will make no effort to do so. But not another day
will I live beneath the same roof with the woman who believed me guilty
of murder, and yet sunk herself so low as to become my wife!"
"As you please," she said, defiantly. "I should be quite as happy were it
so."
He bowed coldly, courteously--went out, and closed the door behind him.
The sound struck to the heart of his wife like a knell. She staggered
back, and fell upon a chair.
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