“I knew how much you would feel it.  Some one at Hellingford told me you were abroad, in Rome, I think.  But you must not distress yourself unnecessarily; the sentence is sure to be commuted to transportation, or something equivalent.  I was talking to the Home Secretary about it only last night.  Lapse of time and subsequent good character quite preclude any idea of capital punishment.”  All the time that he said this he had other thoughts at the back of his mind—­some curiosity, a little regret, a touch of remorse, a wonder how the meeting (which, of course, would have to be some time) between Lady Corbet and Ellinor would go off; but he spoke clearly enough on the subject in hand, and no outward mark of distraction from it appeared.

Elmer answered: 

“I came to tell you, what I suppose may be told to any judge, in confidence and full reliance on his secrecy, that Abraham Dixon was not the murderer.”  She stopped short, and choked a little.

The judge looked sharply at her.

“Then you know who was?” said he.

“Yes,” she replied, with a low, steady voice, looking him full in the face, with sad, solemn eyes.

The truth flashed into his mind.  He shaded his face, and did not speak for a minute or two.  Then he said, not looking up, a little hoarsely, “This, then, was the shame you told me of long ago?”

“Yes,” said she.

Both sat quite still; quite silent for some time.  Through the silence a sharp, clear voice was heard speaking through the folding-doors.

“Take the kedgeree down, and tell the cook to keep it hot for the judge.  It is so tiresome people coming on business here, as if the judge had not his proper hours for being at chambers.”

He got up hastily, and went into the dining-room; but he had audibly some difficulty in curbing his wife’s irritation.

When he came back, Ellinor said: 

“I am afraid I ought not to have come here now.”

“Oh! it’s all nonsense!” said he, in a tone of annoyance.  “You’ve done quite right.”  He seated himself where he had been before; and again half covered his face with his hand.

“And Dixon knew of this.  I believe I must put the fact plainly—­to you—­your father was the guilty person? he murdered Dunster?”

“Yes.  If you call it murder.  It was done by a blow, in the heat of passion.  No one can ever tell how Dunster always irritated papa,” said Ellinor, in a stupid, heavy way; and then she sighed.

“How do you know this?” There was a kind of tender reluctance in the judge’s voice, as he put all these questions.  Ellinor had made up her mind beforehand that something like them must be asked, and must also be answered; but she spoke like a sleep-walker.

“I came into papa’s room just after he had struck Mr. Dunster the blow.  He was lying insensible, as we thought—­dead, as he really was.”

“What was Dixon’s part in it?  He must have known a good deal about it.  And the horse-lancet that was found with his name upon it?”