The names came tumbling out: Dr. Forman, Franklin, Gresham; Mrs. Anne Turner, Sir Gervase Helwys, and behind it all the late Earl of Northampton and the Countess of Somerset.

Frances, aware that terrible revelation was at hand, did not stir from her apartments. She made the excuse that her pregnancy was responsible for her state of health; but when the news was brought to her that Mrs. Anne Turner had been arrested she broke down, and Robert found her lying on her bed so unnerved that he realized she had some fearful secret on her mind.

She knew that she could no longer hope to keep the whole story from him. Sir Gervase Helwys was now being questioned; Franklin had been taken up; soon she knew, the Lord Chief Justice would be pointing to her.

“Robert,” she said, “I am terribly afraid.”

He looked at her steadily. “Is it anything to do with Overbury?”

She nodded.

“They are saying he was poisoned,” went on Robert.

“I know.”

“You mean you know that he was poisoned?”

“I know that too,” she answered.

Horrible understanding was coming to Robert. He whispered: “You?”

She only looked at him, but he knew the answer.

“Mrs. Turner … Weston … Monson … Helwys …” Robert enumerated them.

“I used them all.”

“And the boy who confessed to poisoning the clyster?”

“I paid him twenty pounds to do it,” said Frances wearily.

“Oh, my God,” cried Robert.

“You may well call on God to help us. No one else will.”

“So you are … a murderess!”

“Don’t look at me like that, Robert. I did it for you.”

“Frances … !”

“Yes,” she cried passionately, “for you! For this life of ours….” She beat on her body with frantic hands. “That I might bear you children. That we might grow in power. That we might be together for the rest of our lives.”

“And Overbury?”

“He was in the way. He was trying to stop us. He knew that I had obtained spells from Dr. Forman.”

“Spells?”

“To rid myself of Essex.”

Robert covered his face with his hands. What a fool he had been not to see. Fools paid for their folly. And then he began to think of those months when Overbury was in the Tower. He himself had sent in tarts and delicacies to him. Had those tarts been poisoned? Had he not arranged that Overbury should be sent to the Tower? Had he not wanted it because he was angry with him on account of his attitude to Frances? Frances! It all came back to Frances. But how deeply was he involved?

He was trying to look back to those months of the imprisonment. Had the knowledge been with him that all was not as it seemed? Did he not prevent Overbury’s family from seeing him? Was he too ready to listen to Northampton’s advice?

He would never have condemned to horrible death a man who had once been a friend. But had he thrust the thought of murder from his mind because it was convenient to do so?

How much was he to blame?

He looked at Frances—her eyes enormous in her pale face. She was talking wildly, missing no detail. The letters she had written to Forman, the images he made—the lewd obscene images—the efforts to bewitch Essex; all those horrid practices which had culminated in the murder of Overbury.

And now the story was out, and the Lord Chief Justice would be taking his findings to the King.

The King! thought Robert, with whom his relationship this last year had become strained, the King whose eyes dwelt too fondly on the handsome features of Sir George Villiers.

But James was a loyal friend. He must see James; he must protest his innocence in the matter.

Frances was clutching at his coat with shaking fingers; he wanted to throw her off. He could not bear to look into her face.

Murderess! he thought. She murdered poor Tom Overbury. And she is my wife.

“Robert,” cried Frances, “remember this always: I did it for you.”

He turned away. “I would to God,” he said bitterly, “that I had never set eyes on you.”

James looked sorrowfully into the face of his old friend.