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 t