"As I told you in my opening speech, there are certain facts connected with this case which are bound to be kept secret, even though a man's life or liberty are at stake, and when I tell you that I--like yourselves--am unaware of the bearing which these family affairs have upon the crime we are investigating, you will fully appreciate the difficulty in which I am placed. Had it not been for the production of the two witnesses by the prisoner's wife at the eleventh hour, I should have been compelled to give way against the weight of circ.u.mstantial evidence brought by the prosecution. However, I feel a.s.sured that no right-minded man can a.s.sume that the prisoner at the bar had any hand in the a.s.sa.s.sination of the defenceless woman in Bedford Place, after the statement of the maid who actually saw the crime committed, and who positively swears that the accused was not present. I would therefore ask you to at once return a verdict of `Not Guilty,' and thus bring about the prisoner's discharge."

Then the judge summed up.

He reviewed the case with much deliberation and care, saying that, in dealing with a crime committed without any witnesses being present, inference must take the place of direct evidence; but in the case before them they had discovered that a witness was present, and that witness positively swore that I was not the murderer. Therefore, despite the obvious gaps in the argument for the defence, it was an open question whether or not I should be discharged.

The spectators looked on with breathless anxiety, understanding that the woman's evidence had served as a lever to demolish the whole theory of the prosecution.

But no. The jury were not unanimous. They asked leave to retire. Once only I saw Vera during the quarter of an hour they were absent. I could see she was terribly agitated as she leant over to consult Mr Roland.

"You need have no fear," I heard him say. "He will be acquitted."

All eyes were turned upon me during those awful moments.

Suddenly there was a movement, and the jury Slowly filed into Court.

A deathlike stillness ensued as the clerk rose and asked the foreman,--

"Have you agreed upon your verdict?"

"We have."

"Do you find the prisoner, Frank Burgoyne, guilty of having murdered Ethel Inglewood, or not guilty?"

"Not guilty!"

An outburst of applause greeted this announcement; then the judge ordered my discharge, and I walked from the dock a free man.

Vera met me, and flinging her arms about my neck, kissed me. My face was wet with her tears of joy. Not a single word was exchanged between us.

We left the Court together, and entering a cab, drove to the Grand Hotel, where she was staying.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

VERA'S SECRET.

A few hours had elapsed since my acquittal, and after a brush up and a hasty meal I had entered Vera's sitting-room.

It was already dark. The tiny electric lamps flooded with amber light the small apartment rendered cosy by the drawn curtains. On a lounge chair she sat, wrapped in a pale grey cashmere gown, with a bunch of crimson roses in her breast. At sight of me she rose. Not a muscle of her countenance stirred, I and could divine her embarra.s.sment by the sharp glance she momentarily darted at me.

I scented in this proceeding some annoying mystery.

A constrained silence reigned for some moments.

"Frank," exclaimed she, in a very calm tone, advancing slowly and taking my hand, "at last we are alone."

"Yes, Vera," I replied, calling to my aid all my coolness to feign a serenity which I was far from possessing. "Now, perhaps, you will let me know this secret of yours which has so long estranged us, and brought us all this sorrow."

She stood motionless, with compressed lips, and shivering slightly, said,--

"Forgive me! Frank, forgive me! I will tell you everything. You shall know the truth; believe me."

"Why did you not tell me the truth long ago; then this degrading trial would have been avoided," I said, bitterly.

"Because I could not, until this afternoon."

"Not when my life was at stake?"

She shook her head seriously, replying, "No, it was impossible."

Was I still being duped? Those were the only words that beat a constant and painful tattoo in my brain.

"Tell me," I said, laying my hand upon her shoulder, "tell me the reason why you have kept this secret of yours till now?"

"Hark!" she said, listening intently.

I could hear nothing beyond the roar of the traffic in Trafalgar Square.

She crossed quickly to the window, and flinging aside the curtains, opened it.

"Come here," she commanded.

I obeyed her.

"See! below. There is a man selling newspapers. Listen to what he says?"

I leant out of the window, and as I did so a hoa.r.s.e cry broke upon my ear. It caused me to start, for the words the man shouted were, "Extra special! Attempt to murder the Czar! Exciting Scenes! Extra special!"

"What has that to do with it?" I asked, puzzled, as she closed the window and drew the curtains again.

"Everything," she replied, sighing. "Sit down, and I will tell you the story."

I flung myself into an easy-chair, and she came and stood beside me.

Her hand smoothed my forehead with a tender caress, yet somehow I could not trust her; the ironic and brutal strokes of Fate had paralysed me, and I felt myself wholly stupefied.

"Sometimes, Frank, an unforeseen incident, a chance, an exterior influence, may bring on a disastrous crisis. It has unfortunately been so in my case," she said, in a deep, earnest voice.

"Begin at the beginning. Let me know what is this strange mystery which has shadowed your life," I urged, taking her hand in mine.

"Hush! we must not be overheard," she replied, glancing apprehensively at the door. "I--I fully recognise how painful all these complications must have been to you, dear, but I a.s.sure you it is not my fault that I have not divulged. I had taken an oath--"

"An oath!"

"Yes. I know it was purely from love that you married me, enveloped in mystery as I was; and, then, when you saw me in the Dene, and--and-- thought me untrue--ah--you surely should have known me better than that.

You know how I love you; and yet you suspected me!" she cried pa.s.sionately.

"Don't let's talk of that," I said, impatiently.

"When I have told you," she continued, her eyes filling with tears, "you will no longer believe me Valse, even though I--your wife--have stained my Hands with crime!"

"What!" I cried, in amazement, "you?"