face, his dulled mind seemed lapsing into its stupefied trance of
quiet. More and more alarmed, his aunt gazed at him. Had the death of
his wife turned his brain?

"Victor!" she exclaimed, almost angrily, "you must rouse yourself. You
must not stay here. Be a man! Wake up. Your wife has been murdered. Go
and find her murderer."

"Her murderer," he replied, in the same slow tone of unnatural quiet;
"her murderer. It seems strange, Aunt Helena, doesn't it, that any one
_could_ murder her? 'I must find her murderer.' Oh," he cried,
suddenly, in a voice of anguish; "what does it matter about her
murderer! It won't bring her back to life. She is dead I tell
you--dead!"

He flung himself off his chair, on his knees by the couch. He drew
down the white satin counterpane, and pointed to that one dark, small
stab on the left side.

"Look!" he said, in a shrill, wailing voice, "through the
heart--through the heart! She did not suffer--the doctors say
_that_. Through the heart as she slept. Oh, my love, my darling,
my wife!"

He kissed the wound--he kissed the hands, the face, the hair. Then
with a long, low moan of utter desolation, he drew back the covering
and buried his face in it.

"Leave me alone," he said, despairingly; "I will not go--I will never
go from her again. She was mine in life--mine only. Juan Catheron lied,