believe that she was guilty. Even if she were, he cherished a secret
hope that she might escape the police. It was terrible to think that one
woman should be dead, but it was more awful to look forward to the
trial, condemnation, and hanging of the other.

"I blame Ware a good deal for this," continued Morley gloomily. "He
openly admired Miss Denham, and encouraged her to flirt with him. A rash
thing to do to one who has negro blood in her veins. I expect passion
carried her beyond herself."

"How do you know she has negro blood?"

"She said so herself."

"Did you know that when you engaged her?"

"I never engaged her at all, Drake. My wife did. I must say that Miss
Denham's credentials were good. She had been governess in an Italian
family, and ha!----" He stopped suddenly, and started up. "In Italy she
might have procured a stiletto. From the nature of the wound--which is
small and deep--I should think it was inflicted with such a weapon."

"How do you know that the wound is small and deep?"

"My wife told me when she came to the door that time. You did not hear
her. She says the wound is quite small. In that case it must be deep, or
the death would not have occurred so suddenly."

Drake shook his head. "We don't know that it did occur suddenly."

Morley contradicted this angrily. "If Daisy had not died at once she
would have had time to shriek, and the cry would have been heard in the
church."

"I doubt it. The people were deeply interested in my sermon."

The other man shrugged his shoulders. It was scarcely worth while
arguing this point with the rector. He relapsed into a brown study,
until roused to reply to a question asked by his guest.

"Have you ever seen a stiletto?" asked Drake.

"I have one here," replied Morley, running his eye along the wall; "one
that I got in Italy myself. It was said to have belonged to Lucrezia
Borgia. I wonder where it is."

"Rather difficult to discover it amidst all these weapons, Mr. Morley.
Good heavens! what is the matter?"

He might well ask. His host was clutching his arm in a vice-like hold,
and was pointing to a certain part of the wall whereon hung a pair of
ancient pistols, a crusader's shield, and an old helmet.

"The stiletto was there. It is gone!" gasped Morley.

"Impossible. Who can have taken it?"

"Miss Denham! Miss Denham! Oh, and you believe her to be innocent!"
cried the other. "She came into this very room at nine o'clock, or a
little aft