'As sure as I can be of anything about a young man whom I knew as well as if he had been my brother,' replied Maurice, wondering at the girl's calm clear tone. At this moment she seemed older than her years—his equal, or more than his equal in shrewdness and judgment. 'Is there any one who would be a gainer by his death?' she asked. 'Naturally. The next heir to the Penwyn estate is a very considerable gainer. For him James Penwyn's death means the difference between a hard-working life like mine and a splendid future.' 'Could he have anything to do with the crime?' 'He! Churchill Penwyn? Well, no; it would be about as hard to suspect him as it was to suspect me. Churchill Penwyn is a gentleman, and, I conclude, a man of honour. His conduct towards me to-day showed him a man of kind feeling.' 'No. I suppose gentlemen do not commit such crimes,' mused Justina. 'And we shall never know who killed him. That seems hardest of all. That bright young life taken, and the wretch who took it left to go free.' Tears filled her eyes as she turned away from Clissold, ashamed of her grief; tears which should have been shed in secret, but which she could not keep back when she thought of her young lover's doom. Clissold tried to soothe her, assured her of his friendship—his help should she ever need it. 'I shall always be interested in you,' he said. 'I shall think of you as my poor lad's first and last love. He had had his foolish, boyish flirtations before; but I have reason to know that he never asked any other woman to be his wife; and he was too staunch and true to make such an offer unless he meant it.' Justina gave him a grateful look. It was the first time he had seen her face light up with anything like pleasure that day. 'You do believe that he loved me, then?' she exclaimed, eagerly. 'It was not all my own foolish dream. He was not'—the next words came slowly, as if it hurt her to speak them—'amusing himself at my expense.' 'I have no doubt of his truth. I never knew him tell a lie. I do not say that his fancy would have lasted—it may have been too ardent, too sudden, to stand wear and tear. But be assured for the moment he was true—would have wrecked his life, perhaps, to keep true to the love of a day.' This time the girl looked at him angrily. 'Why do you tell me he must have changed if God had spared him?' she added. 'Why do you find it so hard to imagine that he might have gone on loving me? Am I so degraded a creature in your eyes?' 'I am quite ready to believe that you are a very noble girl,' answered Maurice, 'worthy a better lover than my poor friend. But you are Miss Elgood, of the Theatre Royal, Eborsham, and he was Squire Penwyn, of Penwyn. Time would not have changed those two facts, and might have altered his way of looking at them.'