It was the newspaper story of the girl found dead in Central Park that
afternoon, with the mystery involving the sudden fatality, and the names
of the murdered girl and her mistress, Violet Page.
A half-smothered oath of horror and dismay broke from Venner, after a
moment.
It brought Cervera to his side, and she snatched the paper from him and
read--the story of her own failure; the miscarriage of her own jealous
and murderous design.
She suppressed the shriek of mingled disappointment and fury that rose
to her twitching lips, then passionately cast the paper upon the table.
"Well, what do you make of it?" she demanded, glaring at Venner's
colorless face.
"No need to ask," he replied, hoarsely. "You know what I make of it."
"You think I did it?"
"I know you did it!"
"And killed the wrong girl?"
"And killed the wrong girl!"
"Can you guess how?"
"I don't care how. I know that you did it."
"You will not betray me?" hissed Cervera, crouching before him, with
eyes never leaving his.
"I have no wish to betray you."
"You dare not! you dare not!"
"I shall not!"
"If you do--"
The woman checked her words for an instant, and ran her hand into the
bosom of her dress.
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