“It shall recoil upon him!” he cried. “Such injustice shall not be done. You are happy here, Lady Pelham, and here you shall remain. For your sake, I will discontinue my visits, or make them at such long intervals that they cannot raise suspicion in a detective’s mind. But you shall not go. I hope I may see the man who dares to act the spy upon you. He shall have cause to remember my name. Do not tremble, do not fear; you are safe here as though you were in the sanctuary of your mother’s home.” She looked at him, tears shining in her eyes. “Have I found a friend and protector at last? I thank Heaven, for if any one sorely needs such a friend, I am that one. You are very good to me; you believe in me, Mr. Eyrle--you believe in my innocence?” “As I believe in Heaven,” he replied, reverently. “You have trusted me; you shall find that your trust is not in vain. I will befriend you, yet so as not to injure you. Before I go, promise me that you will not make any attempt to go from here.” “I promise,” she said, thoughtfully. “Trust me,” he continued. “The best thing for you and the worst for himself would be that your husband should renew the attack with me for his opponent. Have no fear, Lady Pelham.” “You will keep my story a secret--that is, you will tell my real name to no one?” “I will not. Good-by! Send Miss Hanson to tell me if any new trouble should menace you. I will make it my own.” He held her hand for one minute in his own; he saw the tears in her eyes, and then turned away without another word. CHAPTER XLV. THE BEGINNING OF THE END. “Great events from little causes spring.” Kenelm Eyrle preferred walking through the woods home; he wanted leisure to think. The sunshine and the songs of the birds disturbed him. He went into the deep heart of the woods, where the light came filtered through the thick-leaved boughs of tall trees; where the shade was cool, sweet and fragrant, he lay down among the ferns and bracken to think. It seemed to him terrible that in this free and beautiful land an innocent woman could be so cruelly tortured. “There must be something terribly wrong,” he thought. “A woman is entirely at the mercy of her husband. He may bring what false charges he will against her. The divorce courts must be a curse, not a blessing. They have abolished the Hindoo suttee, but this seems to me a thousand times worse. That woman has suffered greater torture than any earthly fire could inflict. There is something wrong.” He looked overhead. The tall branches were waving in the sweet western wind; all nature was fair, serene and calm. The story he had heard ran strangely through his mind. “How much women suffer!” he thought. “Privations, cruelty, scandal, shame, unmerited disgrace.” And then his thoughts wandered to Clarice, who had died in the fair springtime of her youth and fair loveliness. He sprang from the ground with a cry of self-reproach.