"Good God--good God!" he said twice, for a glimmer of the truth struck
him. He knew what his brother had done. He could conceive the revenge
to his brother's amorous hand. He listened till the whole tale was told;
till the death of the girl in the pond at home--back in her own little
home. Then the rest of the story shook him.

"The verdict of the coroner's court was that he was shot by his own hand
--by accident," said Denzil. "That was the coroner's verdict, but yes!
Well, he was shot by his own gun, but not by his own hand. There was
some one who loved the girl, took toll. The world did not know, and does
not know, but you know--you--you, the brother of him that spoiled a
woman's life! Do you think such a man should live? She was the sweetest
girl that ever lived, and she loved me! She told me the truth--and he
died by his own gun--in the woods; but it wasn't accident--it wasn't
accident--but no! The girl had gone, but behind her was some one that
loved her, and he settled it once for all."

As he had told the story, Denzil's body seemed to contract; his face took
on an insane expression. It was ghastly pale, but his eyes ware aflame.
His arms stretched out with grim realism as he told of the death of
Almeric Tarboe.

"You've got the whole truth, m'sieu'. I've told it you at last. I've
never been sorry for killing him--never--never--never. Now, what are you
going to do about it--you--his brother--you that come here making love
too?"

As the truth dawned upon Tarboe, his great figure stretched itself. A
black spirit possessed him.