"There is yet nothing of kinship between us," he said, "for between your
purpose and mine there could be no more comparison than between a street
puddle and Feldwick Farm. It is a life I seek."

"I would to God, David," she cried fiercely, "that it were the same
life. For at the end of my purpose is death."

He gazed at her speechless. For the first time the change in her was
brought home to him. The stern lines in her face had become rigid and
cruel, a new light shone in her eyes. Joan, the domineering, had become
Joan the tragical. He listened to her fascinated--and his limbs shook
with fear.

"Can you wonder what it is, David? You have tasted the bitterness of
strange happenings, and you have almost forgotten your name and whence
you came. It is your task which I have made mine. Yet it is not too
late for you, if you will help."

"Speak out," he whispered, hoarsely.

"You knew of Father's death?"

"You knew that he was robbed and murdered?"

The man who was lurking so far as he could in the shadows of the room
said nothing--but his eyes seemed to become like balls of red fire, and
his livid cheeks were horrible to look upon. Even Joan was startled.

"You knew of these things, David?" she cried.