I was never so hard put to it--not when I first realised that I had been seen with my fingers on Adelaide's throat.

Arthur! A booby and a boor, but certainly not the slayer of his sister, unless I had been woefully mistaken in all that had taken place in that club-house previous to my entrance into it on that fatal night.

As I caught Clifton's eye fixed upon me, I repeated--though with more self-control, I hope: "Don't think of me.

I'm not thinking of myself.

You speak of evidence.