in the garden had been a quarrel about money matters, and Mrs. Sparling had left him, in great excitement, convinced that the chief obstacle in the way of her complete control of Wing and his money lay in the wife.  There again—­as to the weapon—­I had no means of refuting him.  As far as the appearance—­after the murder—­of the racks holding the arms was concerned, the weapon might have been taken from either place.  And again—­on the whole—­the jury believed Wing.  The robbery of the sister’s money—­the incredible rapidity of Juliet Sparling’s deterioration—­had set them against her.  Her wild beauty, her proud and dumb misery in the dock, were of a kind rather to alienate the plain man than to move him.  They believed her capable of anything—­and it was natural enough.

“But Wing confessed to me that he knew perfectly well that the dagger belonged to the stand in the gallery.  He had often examined the arms there, and was quite certain of the fact.  He swore this to the priest.  Here, again, you can only explain his evidence by a desire for revenge.”

Sir James paused.  As he moved a little away from his companion his expression altered.  It was as though he put from him the external incidents and considerations with which he had been dealing, and the vivacity of manner which fitted them.  Feelings and forces of another kind emerged, clothing themselves in the beauty of an incomparable voice, and in an aspect of humane and melancholy dignity.

He turned to Lady Lucy.

“Now then,” he said, gently, “I am in a position to put the matter to you finally, as—­before God—­it appears to me.  Juliet Sparling—­as I said to Oliver last night—­was not a bad woman!  She sinned deeply, but she was never false to her husband in thought or deed; none of her wrong-doing was deliberate; she was tortured by remorse; and her murderous act was the impulse of a moment, and partly in self-defence.  It was wholly unpremeditated; and it killed her no less than her victim.  When, next day, she was removed by the police, she was already a dying woman.  I have in my possession a letter—­written to me by her—­after her release, in view of her impending death, by the order of the Home Office—­a few days before she died.  It is humble—­it is heart-rending—­it breathes the sincerity of one who had turned all her thoughts from earth; but it thanked me for having read her aright; and if ever I could have felt a doubt of my own interpretation of the case—­but, thank God, I never did!—­that letter would have shamed it out of me!  Poor soul, poor soul!  She sinned, and she suffered—­agonies, beyond any penalty of man’s inflicting.  Will you prolong her punishment in her child?”

Lady Lucy had covered her face with her hand.  He saw her breath flutter in her breast.  And sitting down beside her, blanched by the effort he had made, and by the emotion he had at last permitted himself, yet fixing his eyes steadily on the woman before him, he waited for her reply.