"Without stopping to see whether any one was hurt?"

"Yes, my girl--and that was my mistake. If I'd gone on and found Mr.

Vane and given the alarm and all that, I dare say I should have got off.

But that was my misfortune, and also my hatred to Mr. Vane and his wicked ways. I says to myself, 'This is no business of yours. Let them settle it between themselves. I'll not interfere.' So I sort of hardened my heart and went on my way."

"Father, perhaps you might have saved a life!"

"No," said Westwood calmly, "I couldn't have done that. He was shot clean through the heart. And I'm not sure that I would if I could. He was a bad man, and deserved his punishment. The only thing I can't understand is why the man as did it hadn't the pluck to say what he had done, instead of leaving a poor common man like me to bear the blame."

"Did you not tell all this to the jury and the counsel?"

"Yes, my dear, I did--every word. But who was there to believe me? It didn't sound likely, you know. And who else was there, as the lawyers said, that had reason to hate Mr. Vane? Why, if they'd known all I knew, they would have seen that every honest man would have hated him! But, by never telling what I knew previous about Miss Lepel, I didn't put 'em on the right track, you see. I own that now."

"Father, I see to whom your suspicions point--you said as much to me before. But I feel sure that Mr. Hubert Lepel is incapable of such a deed--not only of the murder--for which one could forgive him--but of letting another bear the blame."

"Well, perhaps so, Cynthy. I don't think you would ha' given your heart to an out-an-out scoundrel--I don't indeed. And Mr. Lepel has a good sort o' face. I've seen him, and I like him. He looks as if he'd had a good bit o' trouble somehow; and I daresay it's likely, with a sister like that on his hands. It's my belief, Cynthia, not that Mr. Lepel, but his sister, Miss Florence Lepel, as she was then, did the deed and put the blame on me. And I'm inclined to think as how Mr. Lepel knows it and wouldn't tell."

"A woman! Could a woman manage a heavy gun like that?"

"If she was desperate, she could, my dear. It's wonderful what strength a woman will have when she's in a temper. And maybe Mr. Vane failed her at the last moment--wouldn't go with her away from England, or something o' that kind--and she thought she would be revenged on him."

The theory did credit to Reuben Westwood's imagination; but it was a mistaken one. At present, however, it seemed sufficiently credible to give Cynthia much cause for reflection. She did not speak. Westwood gave his knee a sudden stroke with one hand, expressive of growing amazement, as he also meditated on the matter.

"And then for her to go and marry the old man--Sydney Vane's brother! It beats all that I ever heard of! She must have got nerves of steel and muscles of iron; she must be the boldest, hardest liar that ever trod this earth. If I thought that all women was like her, Cynthia, I would go to the devil at once! But I've known two good ones in my time, I reckon--your mother and you--and that should p'r'aps be enough for any man. Yes, she's married and got a child--a little lad that'll have the estate and prevent the girl from coming to her own--at least, what would have been her own if there had been no boy."

"You mean Miss Enid Vane?" said Cynthia, again with a curious softening of the eyes.

"Yes, some outlandish name of that sort--'Enid,' is it? Well, you know better than I. I'm glad you're breaking it off with that man Lepel, Cynthia, for more reasons than one."

Cynthia hardly noticed the significance of his tone or the conjunction of the two names in his remarks. She had something else in her mind which she was anxious to have said.

"Father, I am to see Mr. Lepel this afternoon."

"Yes, my girl?"

"And I want to say good-bye to him for ever."

Westwood nodded; he was well pleased with her decision.

"And then I will go to America with you whenever you please. But one thing I want you to allow me to do."

"Well, Cynthy?"

"I must tell Mr. Lepel who I am. I will not of course let him think that I know anything of you now. He shall not know that you are alive. But I must do as I please about telling him my own name."

"Very well, Cynthia," said her father; "do as you like in that matter. I can trust you with a good deal, and I trust you so far; but don't let out that you know anything about me now--that I'm alive, and that you have seen me, or anything of that sort."

"No, father."

"I see what you're after," said he, after a pause. "You think he'll give you up more ready when he knows that you are my daughter--isn't that it?

You may say so open-like; it doesn't hurt me, you know. Of course I can understand what he will feel. And what's always been hardest to me was the feelin' that I had injured you so much, my dear--you, the only thing left to me in the world to love."

"You could not help it, father dear."

"Well, I don't know. I might have done many things different--I see that now. But there's one thing to be said--if you feel inclined to break off with Mr. Lepel without telling him your name, I think it would be easy enough to do it."

"How? What do you mean?"

"You think he's fond of you--don't you, my dear?"

"I thought so, father."

"He's tried to make you believe so for his own ends, no doubt. But he means to marry the other girl, my dear--they told me so at Beechfield.

They say he worships the very ground she treads upon; and she the same with him. Being fond of you was only a blind to lead you to your destruction, I'm afraid, my poor pretty dear!"

Cynthia shrank a little as she heard. Could this be true?

"The girl lives down there then, does she?" she asked, in a strange hard voice not like her own.

"Yes, my dear. He would not be able to break off there without a tremendous to-do, I'll warrant you; for the girl is the General's niece, the daughter of Mr. Sydney Vane--the Miss Enid you spoke about just now."

As he got no answer, he turned to look at her, and found that she was deadly white; but, when she noticed that he was looking at her, she smiled and passed her hand reassuringly within his arm.

"You make my task all the easier for me, father," she said; "I shall know what to do now. And I think that it is about time for me to go home."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Cynthia had already despatched a little note to Hubert asking him to visit her at a certain hour that afternoon--hence the certainty with which she spoke of his visit to her father. After what had passed between them, she did not think that he would fail to come.

She wanted him at half-past five precisely, because at that hour Madame had promised to go for a drive in the Park with one of her most fashionable pupils and her friends, and Cynthia knew that she could then see him alone. And she was right in thinking that he would come. Just as the half-hour struck, Hubert knocked at Madame della Scala's door, and was immediately ushered into a tiny little room on the ground-floor which was always called "Miss West's parlor," and which contained little furniture except a piano and table and a couple of chairs. It was here that Cynthia practised and studied, and sat when she wanted to be alone.

Two or three photographs of the heads of great singers and musicians were the sole decorations of the walls; a pile of music and some books lay on the table. The place had a severely business-like air; and yet its very simplicity and the sombreness of its tints had hitherto always given Hubert, who knew the room, a sense of pleasure. But he knitted his brows when he was taken to it on this occasion. It seemed to him that Cynthia wanted to give her interview with him also a business-like character. But perhaps, he reflected, it was only that she wanted a peculiarly confidential talk.

He looked at her a little anxiously when she came in, and was rather puzzled by her face. She was pale, and she had been crying, for her eyelids were red; but she gave him a peculiarly sweet and winning smile, and there was a pleading softness in the lovely eyes under the wet lashes which melted his heart to her at once, although she offered him her hand only and would not allow him to kiss her cheek.

"What--not one kiss for me this afternoon? I thought I was forgiven!" he said reproachfully.

"It is I who want forgiveness," she answered, "for being so bad-tempered and cross and rude last night."

"Take my forgiveness then," said Hubert almost gaily in his relief at hearing the sweetness of her voice--"and take it in this form."

He would not be denied; and Cynthia had no heart to struggle. She let him enfold her in his arms for a moment, and press a dozen kisses on her lips and cheek; then she drew herself away. He felt the movement; although he did not let her go.

"My dearest, you do not speak naturally--and you want to get away from me. What does this mean?"