"I did not think that my own father would insult me!" she said, in a voice which, though low, vibrated with anger. "I am quite well able to take care of my own honor and dignity; and Mr. Lepel would never dream of assailing either." Then she broke down a little, and a few tears made their way over the scarlet of her cheeks; but of these signs of distress her father took no notice. He stood still in the middle of the path down which they had been walking, and repeated the name incredulously. "'Lepel'! 'Lepel'! Is that your sweetheart's name?" "'Hubert Lepel.' It is a well-known name," said Cynthia, with head erect. "Hubert Lepel! Not the man at Beechfield, the cousin of those Vanes?" He spoke in a whisper, with his eyes fixed on his daughter's face. Cynthia turned very pale. "I do not know. Oh, it can't be the same," she said. "It's not likely that there are two men of the same name. He was a cousin of the man who was killed, I tell you; and he was the brother--the brother----" Suddenly Westwood stopped short; his eyes fell to the ground, his breathing quickened; he thrust his hands into his pockets and frowned heavily as he reflected. "Have I got a clue?" he said, more to himself than to Cynthia. "He's the brother of that woman--the woman that Sydney Vane used to meet in the wood so often, and thought that nobody knew. Did he--did he----" But, raising his eyes suddenly, he saw the whiteness of Cynthia's face, and did not finish his question. "Listen to me!" he said, with sudden sternness. "This man belongs to them that put me in prison and believe me to have murdered Sydney Vane. Do you understand that, girl?" "Father, he would trust you--he would believe in you--if once he saw you and talked to you." "So you mean to betray me to him, do you?" "Father--dear father!" "If you say a word to him about my being in England, Cynthia, you may just as well put a rope round my neck or give me a dose of poison. For buried alive at Portland I never will be again!" "He would no more betray you, father, than----" "Promise me that you'll not breathe a word to him about me!" "I promise." "And swear?" "I swear, father--not until you give me leave." "I shall never give you leave. Do you want to kill me, Cynthia? I'd never have thought it of you after all you said! Come, my girl, you needn't cry; I did not mean to suspect you; but I'm so used to being on my guard. Does he know whose daughter you are?" "No, father." "You haven't dared to tell him, and yet you wanted to put my safety in his hands!" "I am sure he is too kind, too noble, to think of betraying any one!" Cynthia pleaded; but her father would not hear.