left her its counterpart on the night he died.  He knew her secret, and she had to meet him if he chose.  He threatened to tell Sir Everard else, and the thought of her husband ever discovering her mother’s shame was agony to her.  She knew how proud he was, how proud his mother was, and she would have died to save him pain.  And that is why she met Mr. Parmalee by night and by stealth—­why she gave him money—­why all the horrors that have followed occurred.”

Once more the cruel, clear, unfaltering voice paused.  A groan broke the silence—­a groan of such unutterable anguish and despair from the tortured husband that every heart thrilled to hear it.

With that agonized groan, his face dropped in his hands, and he never raised it again.  He heard no more—­he sat bowed, paralyzed, crushed with misery and remorse.  His wife—­his lost wife—­had been as pure and stainless as the angels, and he—­oh, pitiful God! how merciless he had been!

Sybilla Silver was dismissed; other witnesses were called.  Edwards and Claudine were the only ones examined that day, Sybilla had occupied the court so long.  They corroborated all she had said.  The prisoner was remanded, and the court adjourned.

The night of agony which followed to the wretched prisoner no words can ever tell.  All he had suffered hitherto seemed as nothing.  Men recoiled in horror at the sight of him next day; it was as if a galvanized corpse had entered the court-room.

He sat in dumb misery, neither heeding nor hearing.  Only once was his attention dimly aroused.  It was at the evidence of a boy—­a ragged youth of some fifteen years, who gave his name as Bob Dawson.

“He had been out late on that ’ere night.  It was between ten and eleven that he was a-dodgin’ round near the stone terrace.  Then he sees a lady a-waitin’, which the moon was shining on her face, and he knowed my lady herself.  He dodged more than hever at the sight, and peeked round a tree.  Just then came along a tall gent in a cloak, like Sir Everard wears, and my lady screeches out at sight of him.  Sir Everard, he spoke in a deep, ’orrid voice, and the words were so hawful, he—­Bob Dawson—­remembered them from that day to this.

“’I swore by the Lord who made me I would murder you if you ever met that man again.  False wife, accursed traitoress, meet your doom!’

“And then my lady screeches out again and says to him—­she says: 

“’Have mercy!  I am innocent, Heverard!  Oh, for God’s sake, do not murder me!’

“And Sir Heverard, he says, fierce and ’orrid: 

“’Wretch, die!  You are not fit to pollute the hearth!  Go to your grave with my ‘ate and my cuss!’

“And then,” cried Bob Dawson, trembling all over as he told it, “I see him lift that there knife, gentlemen, and stab her with all his might, and she fell back with a sort of groan, and he lifts her up and pitches of her over hinto the sea.  And then he cuts, he does, and I—­I was frightened most hawful, and I cut, too.”