"What would you say of the person who did it--of the person
who put Ralph in the way of this--this death?" cried the girl, now
burying her face in her hands.
Willy's lips were livid. They moved as if in speech, but the words
would not come.
"What would I say?" he said at length, bitterly and scornfully, as he
rose from his seat with rigid limbs. "I would say--" He stopped; his
teeth were clinched. He drew one hand impatiently across his face. The
idea that Simeon Stagg must have been the informer had at that moment
got possession of his mind. "Never ask me what I would _say_," he
cried.
"Willy, dear Willy," sobbed Rotha, throwing her arms about him, "that
person--"
The sobs were stifling her, but she would not spare herself.
"That person was MYSELF!"
"You!" cried Willy, breaking from her embrace. "And the murder?" he
asked hoarsely, "whose murder?"
"James Wilson's."
"Let me go--let me go, I say."
"Another word." Rotha stepped into the doorway. Willy threw her
hastily aside and hurried out.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
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