“Will you please sit down and let us talk?” she said, after a moment, withdrawing herself.

She pushed a chair forward, and sat down herself.  The tears were in her eyes, but she brushed them away unconsciously.

“If papa had told me!” she said, in a low voice—­“if he had only told me—­before he died.”

“It was out of love,” said Marsham; “but yes—­it would have been wiser—­kinder—­to have spoken.”

She started.

“Oh no—­not that.  But we might have sorrowed—­together.  And he was always alone—­he bore it all alone—­even when he was dying.”

“But you, dearest, shall not bear it alone!” cried Marsham, finding her hand again and kissing it.  “My first task shall be to comfort you—­to make you forget.”

He thought she winced at the word “forget.”

“When did you first guess—­or know?”

He hesitated—­then thought it best to tell the truth.

“When we were in the lime-walk.”

“When you asked—­her name?  I remember”—­her voice broke—­“how you wrung my hand!  And you never had any suspicion before?”

“Never.  And it makes no difference, Diana—­to you and me—­none.  I want you to understand that now—­at once.”

She looked at him, smiling tremulously.  His words became him; even in her sorrow her eyes delighted in his shrewd thin face; in the fair hair, prematurely touched with gray, and lying heavily on the broad brow; in the intelligence and distinction of his whole aspect.

“You are so good to me—­” she said, with a little sob.  “No—­no!—­please, dear Oliver!—­we have so much to talk of.”  And again she prevented him from taking her in his arms.  “Tell me”—­she laid her hand on his persuasively:  “Sir James, of course, knew from the beginning?”

“Yes—­from the beginning—­that first night at Tallyn.  He is coming down this afternoon, dearest.  He knew you would want to see him.  But it may not be till late.”

“After all, I know so little yet,” she said, bewildered.  “Only—­only what Fanny told me.”

“What made her tell you?”

“She was angry with me—­I forget about what.  I did not understand at first what she was saying.  Oliver”—­she grasped his hand tightly, while the lids dropped over the eyes, as though she would shut out even his face as she asked her question—­“is it true that—­that—­the death sentence—­”

“Yes,” said Marsham, reluctantly.  “But it was at once commuted.  And three weeks after the sentence she was released.  She lived, Sir James tells me, nearly two months after your father brought her home.”

“I wrote last night to the lawyers”—­Diana breathed it almost in a whisper.  “I am sure there is a letter for me—­I am sure papa wrote.”

“Promise me one thing!” said Marsham.  “If they send you newspapers—­for my sake, don’t read them.  Sir James will tell you, this afternoon, things the public have never known—­facts which would certainly have altered the verdict if the jury had known.  Your poor mother struck the blow in what was practically an impulse of self-defence, and the evidence which mainly convicted her was perjured evidence, as the liar who gave it confessed years afterward.  Sir James will tell you that.  He has the confession.”