in a broken voice, “You can’t—you can’t—not if you knew—” And then, as though rallying herself, she faced me squarely, and asked, “What do you know, then?”
“I know that you came to see Mr. Renauld that night. He offered you a check and you tore it up indignantly. Then you left the house—” I paused.
“Go on—what next?”
“I don’t know whether you knew that Jack Renauld would be coming that night, or whether you just waited about on the chance of seeing him, but you did wait about. Perhaps you were just miserable, and walked aimlessly—but at any rate just before twelve you were still near there, and you saw a man on the golf links—”
Again I paused. I had leaped to the truth in a flash as she entered the room, but now the picture rose before me even more convincingly. I saw vividly the peculiar pattern of the overcoat on the dead body of Mr. Renauld, and I remembered the amazing likeness that had startled me into believing for one instant that the dead man had risen from the dead when his son burst into our conclave in the salon.
“Go on,” repeated the girl steadily.
“I fancy his back was to you—but you recognized him, or thought you recognized him. The gait and the carriage were familiar to you, and the pattern of his overcoat.” I paused. “You told me in the train on the way from Paris that you had Italian blood in your veins, and that you had nearly got into trouble once with it. You used a threat in one of your letters to Jack Renauld. When you saw him there, your anger and jealousy drove you mad—and you struck! I don’t believe for a minute that you meant to kill him. But you did kill him, Cinderella.”
She had flung up her hands to cover her face, and in a choked voice she said, “You’re right—you’re right—I can see it all as you tell it.” Then she turned on me almost savagely. “And you love me? Knowing what you do, how can you love me?”
“I don’t know,” I said a little wearily. “I think love is like that—a thing one cannot help. I have tried, I know—ever
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