“I am willing to believe as much,” he returned, with a strange dryness.  “I know that you remember that evening, but I hardly think it altogether on my account—­”

The colour faded from her cheek.  “On whose, then?  My husband’s?”

“And your guest’s.”

“You were my guest.”

“Oh,” cried Cary, “I’ll not have it!  You shall not so perjure yourself!  He has taken much from me; if your truth is his as well, then indeed he has taken all!  I know, I know who was the guest that night, the man with whom you supped, the ‘client from the country.’”

She gazed at him with large eyes, her hand upon her heart, then, with an inarticulate word or two, she moved to the gnarled and protruding roots of the cedar and took her seat there facing his troubled figure and indignant eyes.  “Who was the guest,—­the client from the country?”

“Aaron Burr.”

She drew a difficult breath.  “How long have you known?”

“Since that night.  No—­do not be distressed!  I learned it not from you,—­you kept faithful guard.  But when I left you, within the hour I knew it.”

“And—­and if he were there, what harm?”

Cary regarded her in silence; then, “The letter that I read you that night from your uncle, from one of the heads of your house, from a patriot and a man of stainless honour, that letter was, I think, sufficiently explicit!  There was the harm.  But Major Churchill’s opinion, too, is perhaps forgot.”

“No,” cried Jacqueline, “no; you do not understand!  Listen to me!” She rose, drawing herself to her full height, the red again in her cheek, her eyes dark and bright.  “I am going to tell you the truth of this matter.  Are you not my friend, whose opinion I value for me and mine?  You are a true and honourable gentleman—­I speak with no fear that what I say will ever pass beyond this wood!  Uncle Edward’s letter!  You think that what was said in Uncle Edward’s letter—­ay, and what you, too, said in comment—­was already known to me that night!  Well, it was not.  Oh, it is true that Colonel Burr had supped with us, and it is also true that I was most heartily sorry for it!  At table, while he talked, I saw only that green field so far away, and General Hamilton bleeding to his death,—­yes, and I thought, ’Oh me, what would they say to me at Fontenoy?’ But I knew no worse of Colonel Burr than that one deed, and I bore myself toward him as any woman must toward her husband’s guest!  I am telling you all.  He was Lewis’s guest, Lewis’s correspondent, and this was an arranged meeting.  I knew that and I knew no more.  After supper they talked together, and I sat alone by the fire in the empty drawing-room.  I was bidden—­yes, I will tell you this!—­I was bidden to keep all visitors out, since it must not be known that Colonel Burr was then in Richmond!  You came, and by mistake you were admitted.  I was lonely at heart and hungry for news from home, I let you stay, and you