shriek that told her all.

"Dead? Murdered? Oh, no, no--it cannot be?" cried Oliver's sister. "Not
dead! not dead!"

She fell back in violent hysterics, but Ethel neither wept nor cried
aloud. She stood erect, her head a little higher than usual, a smile
that might almost be called proud curving her soft lips.

"You see," she said, unsteadily, but very clearly; "you see--it was not
his fault. He _would_ have come--if he had been--alive."

And, then, still smiling, she gave her hand to her brother and let him
lead her away. But before she had crossed the threshold of the room, he
was obliged to take her in his arms to save her from falling, and it was
in his arms that she was carried back to the carriage which she had left
so smilingly.

But for those who were left behind there was more bad news to hear. In
London no secret can be kept even from the ears of those whose heart it
breaks to hear it. Before noon the newsboys were crying in the streets--

"Brutal murder of a gentleman on his wedding-day. Arrest of a well-known
journalist."

And everywhere the name bandied from pillar to post was that of Mr.
Caspar Brooke, who had been arrested on suspicion of having caused the
death of Oliver Trent.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

IN ETHEL'S ROOM.

To those who knew Caspar Brooke best, it seemed ridiculously impossible
that he should have been accused of any act of violence. But the
accusation was made with so much circumstantial detail that no course
seemed open to the police but to arrest him with as little delay as
possible. And before the ill-fated wedding party had been dispersed,
before Miss Brooke could hurry home, and long before Lesley suspected
the blow that was in store for her, he had been taken by two policemen
in plain clothes to the Bow Street Police station.

The full extent of the misfortune did not burst upon Doctor Sophy all at
once. When she left the church the accusation was not publicly known,
and as she walked home she reflected on the account that she must give
to her brother of the extraordinary events of the day. She wished he had
been present, and wondered why he had shirked the invitation which had
been sent him by Ethel. He was not usually out of bed at this hour, but
she resolved to go to his room and tell him the story at once, for,
though he had never cared much for poor Oliver Trent, he had always been
fond of Ethel. Lesley had gone to the Kenyons' house at Maurice's
earnest request, a