A faint flush appeared on his pale face as he drew back while Horace carried her to the sofa.

His eyes sunk to the ground; he seemed to be meditating self-reproachfully on the tone in which his friend had spoken to him.

After having been the first to take an active part in meeting the calamity that had happened, he was now, to all appearance, insensible to everything that was passing in the room.
A touch on his shoulder roused him.
He turned and looked round.

The woman who had done the mischief--the stranger in the poor black garments--was standing behind him.

She pointed to the prostrate figure on the sofa, with a merciless smile.
"You wanted a proof just now," she said.