The girl was in obvious, terrible distress:  what she was feeling at this moment when she was taking those around her into her confidence could be as nothing compared to what she must have endured when she first heard the news that her strange bridegroom had been murdered.

The kindly squire, though admitting the guardian’s wrath, thought that its violent expression was certainly ill-timed.  He allowed Sue to recover herself, for the more calm was her attitude outwardly, the more terrible must be the effort which she was making at self-control.

Sue’s eyes were fixed steadily upon her guardian, and Richard Lambert’s upon her.  Both these young people who had carved their own Fate in the very rock which now had shattered their lives, seemed to be searching for something vague, unavowed and mysterious which instinct told them was there, but which was so elusive, so intangible that the soul of each recoiled, even whilst it tried to probe.

Entirely against her will Sue—­whilst she looked on her guardian—­could think of nothing save of that day in Dover, the lonely church, the gloomy vestry, and that weird patter of the rain against the window panes.

She was not ashamed of what she had done, only of what she had felt for him, whom she now believed to be dead; that she gave him her fortune was nothing, she neither regretted nor cared about that.  What, in the mind of a young and romantic girl, was the value of a fortune squandered, when that priceless treasure—­her first love—­had already been thrown away?  But now she would no longer judge the dead.  The money which he had filched from her, Fate and a murderous hand had quickly taken back from him, crushing beneath those chalk boulders his many desires, his vast ambitions, a worthless life and incomparable greed.

Her love, which he had stolen ... that he could not give back:  not that ardent, whole-souled, enthusiastic love; not the romantic idealism, the hero-worship, that veil of fantasy behind which first love is wont to hide its ephemerality.  But she would not now judge the dead.  Her romantic love lay buried in the lonely church at Dover, and she was striving not to think even of its grave.

Squire Boatfield’s kindly voice recalled her to her immediate surroundings and to the duty—­self-imposed—­which had brought her thither.

“My dear child,” he said, speaking with unwonted solemnity, “if what you have just stated be, alas! the truth, then indeed, you and you only can throw some light on the terrible mystery which has been puzzling us all ... you may be the means which God hath chosen for bringing an evildoer to justice....  Will you, therefore, try ... though it may be very painful to you ... will you try and tell us everything that is in your mind ... everything which may draw the finger of God and our poor eyes to the miscreant who hath committed such an awful crime.”

“I fear me I have not much to tell,” replied Sue simply, “but I feel that it is my duty to suggest to the two magistrates here present what I think was the motive which prompted this horrible crime.”