It was Oxbye the Dane. Of that there could be no doubt. Equally there
was no doubt in her own mind that he had been poisoned by the
doctor--by Mrs. Vimpany's husband--in the presence and, to all
appearance, with the consent and full knowledge of Lord Harry himself.
Then her mistress was in the power of these two men--villains who had
now added murder to their other crimes. As for herself, she was alone,
almost friendless; in a week or two she would be penniless. If she told
her tale, what mischief might she not do? If she was silent, what
mischief might not follow?
She sat down to write to the only friend she had. But her trouble froze
her brain. She had not been able to put the case plainly. Words failed
her.
She was not at any time fluent with her pen. She now found herself
really unable to convey any intelligible account of what had happened.
To state clearly all that she knew so that the conclusion should be
obvious and patent to the reader would have been at all times
difficult, and was now impossible. She could only confine herself to a
simple vague statement. "I can only say that from all I have seen and
heard I have reasons for believing that Lord Harry is not dead at all.
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