not my own," she said. "My husband gave
them to me, and I know that they were my own."

"They have been stolen, at any rate," said the lawyer.

"Yes;--they have been stolen."

"And now will you tell us how?"

Lizzie looked round upon her brother-in-law and sighed. She had never
yet told the story in all its nakedness, although it had been three
or four times extracted from her by admission. She paused, hoping
that questions might be asked her which she could answer by easy
monosyllables, but not a word was uttered to help her. "I suppose you
know all about it," she said at last.

"I know nothing about it," said Mr. Camperdown.

"We heard that your jewel-case was taken out of your room at Carlisle
and broken open," said Eustace.

"So it was. They broke into my room in the dead of night, when I was
in bed, fast asleep, and took the case away. When the morning came,
everybody rushed into my room, and I was so frightened that I did not
know what I was doing. How would your daughter bear it, if two men
cut away the locks and got into her bedroom when she was asleep? You
don't think about that at all."

"And where was the necklace?" asked Eustace.

Lizzie remembered that her friend the major had specially advised her
to tell the whole truth to Mr. Camperdown,--suggesting that by doing
so she would go far towards saving herself from any prosecution. "It
was under my pillow," she whispered.

"And why did you not tell the magistrate that it had been under your
pillow?"

Mr. Camperdown's voice, as he put to her this vital question, was
severe, and almost justified the little burst of sobs which came
forth as a prelude to Lizzie's answer. "I did not know what I was
doing. I don't know what you expect from me. You had been persecuting
me ever since Sir Florian's death about the diamonds, and I didn't
know what I was to do. They were my own, and I thought I was not
obliged to tell everybody where I kept them. There are things which
nobody tells. If I were to ask you all your secrets, would you tell
them? When Sir Walter Scott was asked whether he wrote the novels, he
didn't tell."

"He was not upon his oath, Lady Eustace."

"He did take his oath,--ever so many times. I don't know what
difference an oath makes. People ain't obliged to tell their secrets,
and I wouldn't tell mine."

"The difference is this, Lady Eustace;--that if you give false
evidence upon oath, you commit perjury."

"How was I to think of that,