But the ceremony was over; and she had just opened the casement to see who their visitor might be, when Tatham rode up to the porch.

“May I speak to you for ten minutes?”

His aspect warned her of things unusual.  He tied up his horse, and she took him into their little sitting-room, and closed the door.

“You haven’t seen a newspaper?”

She assured him their post would not arrive from Keswick for another hour, and stood expectant.

“I wanted to tell you before any one else, because there are things to explain.  We’re friends—­Lydia?”

He approached her eagerly.  His colour had leapt; but his eyes reassured.

“Always,” she said simply, and she put her hand in his.

Then he told her.  He saw her waver, and sink, ghost-like, on a chair.  It was clear enough that the news had for her no ordinary significance.  His heart knew pain—­the reflex of a past anguish; only to be lost at once in the desire to soothe and shield her.

“Mr. Faversham was there?” she asked him, trembling.

“He did not see the shot fired.  The murderer rushing from the gallery brushed past him as he was coming out of his room, and escaped.”

“There had been a quarrel?”

He gave her in outline the contents of Undershaw’s letter.

“He still inherits?” Her eyes, shone as he came to the climax of the story—­Faversham’s refusal of the gems—­Melrose’s threat.  The trembling of her delicate mouth urged him for more—­and yet more—­light.

“Everything—­land, money, collections—­under the will made in August.  You see”—­he added, sorely against his will, yet compelled, by the need of protecting her from shock—­“the opportuneness of the murder.  Their relations had been very bad for some time.”

“Opportuneness?” She just breathed it.  He put out his hand again, and took hers.

“You know—­Faversham has enemies?”

She nodded.

“I’ve been one myself,” he said frankly.  “I believe you knew it.  But this thing’s brought me up sharp.  One may think as one likes of Faversham’s conduct—­but you knew—­and I know—­that he’s not the man to pay another man to commit murder!”

“And that’s what they’ll say?” The colour had rushed back into her cheeks.

“That’s what some fool might say, because of the grudge against him.  Well, now, we’ve got to find the murderer!” He rose, speaking in his most cheerful and practical voice, “I’m going on to see what the police have been doing.  The inquest will probably begin to-morrow.  But I wanted to prevent your being startled by this horrible news.  Trust me to let you know—­and to help—­all I can.”

Then for a moment, he seemed to lose his self-possession.  He stood before her awkwardly conscious—­a moral trespasser—­who might have been passing bounds.  But it was her turn to be frank.  She came and put both her hands on his arm—­looking up—­drawing her breath with difficulty.