"You killed Count Samoval?" exclaimed Miss Armytage.

"To be sure I did," was the answer, cynically delivered, accompanied
by a short, sharp laugh. "When I have settled other accounts, and
put all my affairs in order, I shall save the provost-marshal the
trouble of further seeking the slayer. And you didn't know then,
Sylvia, when you lied so glibly to the court, that your future
husband was innocent of that?"

"I was always sure of it," she answered, and looked at Tremayne for
explanation.

O'Moy laughed again. "But he had not told you so. He preferred
that you should think him guilty of bloodshed, of murder even, rather
than tell you the real truth. Oh, I can understand. He is the very
soul of honour, as you remarked yourself, I think, the other night.
He knows how much to tell and how much to withhold. He is master of
the art of discreet suppression. He will carry it to any lengths.
You had an instance of that before the court this morning. You may
come to regret, my dear, that you did not allow him to have his own
obstinate way; that you should have dragged your own spotless purity
in the mud to provide him with an alibi. But he had an alibi all
the time, my child; an unanswerable alibi which he preferred to
withhold. I wonder would you have been so ready to make a shield
of your honour could you have known what you were really shielding?"

"Ned!" she cried. "Why don't you speak? Is he to go on in this
fashion? Of what is he accusing you? If you were not with Samoval
that night, where were you?"