“But—­but—­No one thinks—­no one suspects.  Fair, Fair! are you not mistaken?”

“No.  Nor am I quite alone in my conviction.  And one day the world that suspects nothing shall know.”

There was a silence; then, “But Jacqueline,” she whispered, with whitening lips.  “Jacqueline”—­

“She chose,” he answered.  “I cannot help it.  She took her road and her companion.”

“And you mean—­you mean—­”

“I mean to bring him to justice.”

“To break her heart and ruin her life—­to bring down wretchedness, misery, disgrace!  Oh!” She caught her breath.  “And Deb—­and Uncle Dick and Uncle Edward—­Fair, Fair, leave him alone!”

“You must not ask me that.”

“But Ludwell would—­Ludwell would have asked it!  Oh, do you think he would have endured to bring woe like that upon her!  Oh, Fair, Fair,—­”

Cary sprang to his feet, walked away, and stood with his back to the great stone and his face toward Greenwood.  He saw but one thing there, the graveyard on the hill beneath the leafless trees.  When he came back to Unity, he looked as he had looked beside the dead, that day on Indian Run.

“We are alike, Ludwell and I,” he said, “but we are not that much alike.  I am little now but an avenger of blood.  I shall be that until this draws to an end.”  He came closer and touched her shoulder with his hand.  “Take me or leave me as I am, Unity.  I shall not change, not even for you.”

“But for tenderness,” she cried, “for mercy, for consideration of an old house, for Jacqueline whom your brother loved as you love—­as once you said you loved—­me!  For just pity, Fair!”

“On the other side,” he answered, “is justice.  Don’t urge me, Unity.  That is something your uncle has not done.”

“Uncle Edward?”

“Yes.”

There was a silence; then, “I see now,” said Unity slowly.  “I haven’t understood.  I thought—­I didn’t know what to think.  Uncle Edward, too,—­oh me! oh me!  That is why Deb is not to go to Roselands.”  She considered through blinding tears a little patch of sere grass.  “But Jacqueline,” she whispered,—­“Jacqueline does not know?”

Cary looked at her.  “Do you think that, Unity?”

Unity stared at the grass until the tears all dried.  “She knows—­she knows!  That was a heart-breaking letter to Deb, and I couldn’t—­I couldn’t understand it!  She does not ask me there—­does not seem to want to meet—­I’ve hardly seen her since—­since—­And when we meet, she’s strange—­too gay at first for her, and then too still, with wide eyes she will not let me read.  And she talks and talks—­she talks now more than I do.  She’s not truly Jacqueline—­she’s acting a part.  Oh, Jacqueline, Jacqueline!”

“Be very sure,” he said, “that I have for her only pity, admiration, yes, and understanding!”

“But you intend—­you intend—­”

“To bring Lewis Rand to justice.  Yes, I intend that.”