Lady Isabel sat with her mouth open, as if she could not take in the sense of the words; and when it did become clear to her, she utterly rejected it.

“Francis Levison a murderer!  Oh, no! bad man as he is, he is not that.”

“Wait,” said Mrs. Carlyle.  “I did not speak of this doubt—­nay, this conviction—­which had come; how could I mention to Mr. Carlyle the name of the man who did him that foul wrong?  And Richard has remained so long in exile, with the ban of guilt upon him.  To-day as my carriage passed through West Lynne, Francis Levison was haranguing the people.  I saw that very same action—­the throwing back of the hair with his white hand.  I saw the selfsame diamond ring; and my conviction that he was the same man became more firmly seated than ever.”

“It is impossible!” murmured Lady Isabel.

“Wait, I say,” said Barbara.  “When Mr. Carlyle came home to dinner, I, for the first time, mentioned this to him.  It was no news—­the fact was not.  This afternoon during that same harangue, Francis Levison was recognized by two witnesses to be the man Thorn—­the man who went after Afy Hallijohn.  It is horrible.”

Lady Isabel sat and looked at Mrs. Carlyle.  Not yet did she believe it.

“Yes, it does appear to me as being perfectly horrible,” continued Mrs. Carlyle.  “He murdered Hallijohn—­he, that bad man; and my poor brother has suffered the odium.  When Richard met him that night in Bean lane, he was sneaking to West Lynne in search of the chaise that afterward bore away him and his companion.  Papa saw them drive away.  Papa stayed out late; and, in returning home, a chaise and four tore past, just as he was turning in at the gate.  If that miserable Lady Isabel had but known with whom she was flying!  A murderer!  In addition to his other achievements.  It is a mercy for her that she is no longer alive.  What would her feelings be?”

What were they, then, as she sat there?  A murderer?  And she had——­In spite of her caution, of her strife for self-command, she turned of a deadly whiteness, and a low, sharp cry of horror and despair burst from her lips.

Mrs. Carlyle was astonished.  Why should her communication have produced this effect upon Madame Vine?  A renewed suspicion that she knew more of Francis Levison than she would acknowledge, stole over her.

“Madame Vine, what is he to you?” she asked, bending forward.

Madame Vine, doing fierce battle with herself, recovered her outward equanimity.  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Carlyle,” she said, shivering; “I am apt to picture things too vividly.  It is, as you say, so very horrible.”

“Is he nothing to you?  Don’t you know him?”

“He is nothing to me—­less than nothing.  As to knowing him—­I saw him yesterday, when they put him into the pond.  A man like that!  I should shudder to meet him!”

“Ay, indeed!” said Barbara, reassured.  “You will understand, Madame Vine, that this history has been given to you in confidence.  I look upon you as one of ourselves.”