“It is a caricature of—­of him,” she said.  She smiled, and evidently was willing to talk upon the subject of “him.”  I declined the topic.

This happened a month or more previous to my conversation with Sir George concerning Dorothy.  A few days after my discovery of the cigarro picture, Dorothy and I were out on the terrace together.  Frequently when she was with me she would try to lead the conversation to the topic which I well knew was in her mind, if not in her heart, at all times.  She would speak of our first meeting at The Peacock, and would use every artifice to induce me to bring up the subject which she was eager to discuss, but I always failed her.  On the day mentioned when we were together on the terrace, after repeated failures to induce me to speak upon the desired topic, she said, “I suppose you never meet—­meet—­him when you ride out?”

“Whom, Dorothy?” I asked.

“The gentleman with the cigarro,” she responded, laughing nervously.

“No,” I answered, “I know nothing of him.”

The subject was dropped.

At another time she said, “He was in the village—­Overhaddon—­yesterday.”

Then I knew who “him” was.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Jennie Faxton, the farrier’s daughter, told me.  She often comes to the Hall to serve me.  She likes to act as my maid, and is devoted to me.”

“Did he send any word to you?” I asked at a venture.  The girl blushed and hung her head.  “N-o,” she responded.

“What was it, Dorothy?” I asked gently.  “You may trust me.”

“He sent no word to me,” the girl responded.  “Jennie said she heard two gentlemen talking about me in front of the farrier’s shop, and one of them said something about—­oh, I don’t know what it was.  I can’t tell you.  It was all nonsense, and of course he did not mean it.”

“Tell me all, Dorothy,” I said, seeing that she really wanted to speak.

“Oh, he said something about having seen Sir George Vernon’s daughter at Rowsley, and—­and—­I can’t tell you what he said, I am too full of shame.”  If her cheeks told the truth, she certainly was “full of shame.”

“Tell me all, sweet cousin; I am sorry for you,” I said.  She raised her eyes to mine in quick surprise with a look of suspicion.

“You may trust me, Dorothy.  I say it again, you may trust me.”

“He spoke of my beauty and called it marvellous,” said the girl.  “He said that in all the world there was not another woman—­oh, I can’t tell you.”

“Yes, yes, go on, Dorothy,” I insisted.

“He said,” she continued, “that he could think of nothing else but me day or night since he had first seen me at Rowsley—­that I had bewitched him and—­and—­Then the other gentleman said, ’John, don’t play with fire; it will burn you.  Nothing good can come of it for you.’”

“Did Jennie know who the gentleman was?” I asked.

“No,” returned Dorothy.