“In which it appears you were as much mistaken as I, Cousin Peter.”  Here he glanced at me with a sudden keenness.

“Indeed?”

“Why, surely,” said he, “surely you must know—­” He paused to flick a speck of soot from his knee, and then continued:  “Did she tell you nothing of—­herself?”

“Very little beside her name.”

“Ah! she told you her name, then?”

“Yes, she told me her name.”

“Well, cousin?”

“Well, sir?” We had both risen, and now fronted each other across the anvil, Sir Maurice debonair and smiling, while I stood frowning and gloomy.

“Come,” said I at last, “let us understand each other once for all.  You tell me that you have always looked upon me as your rival for our uncle’s good graces—­I never was.  You have deceived yourself into believing that because I was his ward that alone augmented my chances of becoming the heir; it never did.  He saw me as seldom as possible, and, if he ever troubled his head about either of us, it would seem that he favored you.  I tell you I never was your rival in the past, and never shall be in the future.”

“Meaning, cousin?”

“Meaning, sir, in regard to either the legacy or the Lady Sophia Sefton.  I was never fond enough of money, to marry for it.  I have never seen this lady, nor do I propose to, thus, so far as I am concerned, you are free to win her and the fortune as soon as you will; I, as you see, prefer horseshoes.”

“And what,” said Sir Maurice, flicking a speck of soot from his cuff, and immediately looking at me again, “what of Charmian?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, “nor should I be likely to tell you, if I did; wherever she may be she is safe, I trust, and beyond your reach—­”

“No,” he broke in, “she will never be beyond my reach until she is dead—­or I am—­perhaps not even then, and I shall find her again, sooner or later, depend upon it—­yes, you may depend upon that!”

“Cousin Maurice,” said I, reaching out my hand to him, “wherever she may be, she is alone and unprotected—­pursue her no farther.  Go back to London, marry your Lady Sefton, inherit your fortune, but leave Charmian Brown in peace.”

“And pray,” said he, frowning suddenly, “whence this solicitude de on her behalf?  What is she to you—­this Charmian Brown?”

“Nothing,” I answered hurriedly, “nothing at all, God knows—­nor ever can be—­” Sir Maurice leaned suddenly forward, and, catching me by the shoulder, peered into my face.

“By Heaven!” he exclaimed, “the fellow—­actually loves her!”

“Well?” said I, meeting his look, “why not?  Yes, I love her.”  A very fury of rage seemed suddenly to possess him, the languid, smiling gentleman became a devil with vicious eyes and evil, snarling mouth, whose fingers sank into my flesh as he swung me back and forth in a powerful grip.

“You love her?—­you?—­you?” he panted.