“I was a wild young creature then, my dear, with little beside vanity under my cap.  And the notion that you could admire and love any girl but me was beyond endurance.  Then his Lordship arrived in England, brimming with praise of you, to assure me that the affair was not about Patty at all.  This was far from making me satisfied that you were not in love with her, and I may say now that I was miserable.  Then, as we were setting out for Castle Howard, came the news of your death on the road to Upper Marlboro.  I could not go a step.  Poor Jack, he was very honest when he proposed,” she added, with a sigh.

“He loved you, Dorothy.”

She did not hear me, so deep was she in thought.

“’Twas he who gave me news of you, when I was starving at Gordon’s.”

“And I—­I starved, too, Richard,” she answered softly.  “Dearest, I slid very wrong.  There are some matters that must be spoken of between us, whatever the pain they give.  And my heart aches now when I think of that dark day in Arlington Street when I gave you the locket, and you went out of my life.  I knew that I had done wrong then, Richard, as soon as ever the door closed behind you.  I should have gone with you, for better for worse, for richer for poorer.  I should have run after you in the rain and thrown myself at your feet.  And that would have been best for my father and for me.”

She covered her face with her hands, and her words were stifled by a sob.

“Dorothy, Dorothy!” I cried, drawing her to me.  “Another time.  Not now, when we are so happy.”

“Now, and never again, dear,” she said.  “Yes, I saw and heard all that passed in the drawing-room.  And I did not blame, but praised you for it.  I have never spoken a word beyond necessity to my father since.  God forgive me!” she cried, “but I have despised him from that hour.  When I knew that he had plotted to sell me to that detestable brute, working upon me to save his honour, of which he has not the smallest spark; that he had recognized and denied you, friendless before our house, and sent you into the darkness at Vauxhall to be murdered, then he was no father of mine.  I would that you might know what my mother has suffered from such a man, Richard.”

“My dear, I have often pitied her from my soul,” I said.

“And now I shall tell you something of the story of the Duke of Chartersea,” she went on, and I felt her tremble as she spoke that name.  “I think of all we have Lord Comyn to thank for, next to saving your life twice, was his telling you of the danger I ran.  And, Richard, after refusing you that day on the balcony over the Park, I had no hope left.  You may thank your own nobility and courage that you remained in London after that.  Richard,” she said, “do you recall my asking you in the coach, on the way from Castle Yard, for the exact day you met my father in Arlington Street?”

“Yes,” I replied, in some excitement, “yes.”  For I was at last to come at the bottom of this affair.