a frown.

"At the trial."

"Do you think they'll hang the person who killed Mr. Vrain?"

"If the police catch him, and his guilt is proved, I am sure they will
hang him."

The girl's eyes flashed with a wicked light, and she clasped and
unclasped her hands with a quick, nervous movement. "I hope they will,"
she said in a low, rapid voice. "I hope they will."

"What!" cried Lucian, with a step forward. "Do you know the assassin?"

"No!" cried Rhoda, with much vehemence. "I swear I don't, but I think
the murderer ought to be hanged. I know--I know--well, I know
something--see me to-morrow night, and you'll hear."

"Hear what?"

"The truth," said this strange girl, and shut the door before Lucian
could say another word.

The barrister, quite dumbfounded, remained on the step looking at the
closed door. So important were Rhoda's words that he was on the point of
ringing again, to interview her once more and force her to speak. But
when he reflected that Mrs. Bensusan was in bed, and that Rhoda alone
could reopen the door--which from her late action it was pretty evident
she would not do--he decided to retire for the present. It was little
use to call in the police, or create trouble by forcing his way into the
house, as that might induce Rhoda to run away before giving her
evidence. So Lucian departed, with the intention of keeping the next
night's appointment, and hearing what Rhoda had to say.

"The truth," he repeated, as he walked along the street. "Evidently she
knows who killed this man. If so, why did she not speak before, and why
is she so vindictive? Heavens! If Diana's belief should be a true one,
and her father not dead? Conspiracy! murder! this gypsy girl, that
subtle Italian, and the mysterious Wrent! My head is in a whirl. I
cannot understand what it all means. To-morrow, when Rhoda speaks, I
may. But--can I trust her? I doubt it. Still, there is nothing else for
it. I _must_ trust her."

Talking to himself in this incoherent way, Lucian reached his rooms and
tried to quiet the excitement of his brain caused by the strange words
of Rhoda. It was yet early in the afternoon, so he took up a book and
threw himself on the sofa to read for an hour, but he found it quite
impossible to fix his attention on the page. The case in which he was
concerned was far more exciting than any invention of the brain, and
after a vain attempt to banish it from his mind he jumped up and threw
the book aside.

Althou