She looked at me a moment, and answered defiantly:  “I do not believe it.  I know it.  I have not spoken to any one else about it, nor shall I speak of it again, but I saw him, and of course I hate him.”  She turned her face from me, and I fancied there were tears in her eyes.

“You know that I do not favor Hamilton as your suitor?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered, still with averted face.

“And if I were to tell you that you were wrong, that Hamilton had no part in the robbing and killing of Roger Wentworth, would you believe me?”

“No, no!” she exclaimed, turning to me quickly, with an angry gleam in her eyes.  “I tell you I saw him, and I thank God that at last I know him as he is!  After he had fought so bravely to defend me at the Old Swan, my heart softened for a moment, and I forgot that he was a murderer.  He is brave and strong, but—­why should you try to excuse him now, when you spoke so plainly at Sundridge?  I thought you were too severe then; now I know that you told me only a part of the terrible truth.  My softened mood lasted only a short time after I left the Old Swan, and I cared not whether he lived or died.”

Hoping to put her right, I told her of the wager at the Leg Tavern, which in my opinion fully explained George’s presence on the St. Albans road, but she declared that it was a flimsy excuse, and said she did not want to talk further on the subject.

Knowing that I could not convince her at that time, I bore away from the topic and called her attention to the impropriety of taking dinner unescorted at a public house.

“I know all about it, cousin,” she returned, “but a good character is of no value in Whitehall.  It is an incumbrance.  As to my conscience, you need have no fear.  When I first came to court, I supposed I should encounter dangers.  I was mistaken.  I am as safe here as I should be in my father’s house.  All the pitfalls and snares are to be seen by any one who wishes to see them.  It is the sleeping spider that catches the fly, not your bold, brazen hunter, clumsily alert.”

I did not want to be preaching constantly to Frances, so we talked on other subjects till we reached my uncle’s house, where I remained, singing, dancing, and very merry with Frances, Sarah, and Churchill, till we heard the night watch call, “One o’clock and raining!”

Churchill and I slept at Sir Richard’s and returned to Whitehall the next morning.

During the following week I went to see Betty frequently under the pretence of wishing to see Hamilton, but she told me (honestly, I believed) that he had left the Old Swan and that she did not know where he was.  So I repeated my visits every day, each visit growing longer and I growing fonder.  Betty, too, seemed to be looking for my visits with a degree of pleasure that both pleased and grieved me, for with all my longing for the girl, I never lost sight of the fact that if I were the right sort of man, I should not wish to gain her love to an extent that would mean sorrow to her.