“As a man of the world, my dear, I spoke to Frank about it. I warned him that he had better not go there again. The girl was very pretty, he said, and very grateful. If he went again, mischief might come of it. My words to him were, if I remember rightly,—‘In these cases, nothing but harm can come: a man either makes a fool of himself and marries the girl, or he makes a rascal of himself and does worse.’ Frank did not like what I said, at first, but finally agreed in its justice, and promised to go no more. So you see, Alice, he was warned; after that there could be no accident—it was done deliberately. I never heard or thought any more of it until I came into this room this evening. Then when I saw the state of terrible agitation he was in I guessed the truth. He came to call for justice. Frank had won her under promise of marriage. He had said that I was very old, and that he could not marry her openly until my death; but he promised a secret marriage.” “No, no, uncle,” Alice said, vehemently, “I will not believe that; I will not believe it. It is not true. Frank might, though I do not think it, have done what the man accuses him of, but I feel sure he did not. But, uncle, Frank is not mercenary. He never built on your death. No, no, uncle; nothing in the world will make me believe it of him. I am as certain as I am of my own life that he did not.” “My dear Alice,” the old man said, sadly, “do you think I should be apt to believe anything against Frank rashly? But there can be no question here. Do you think a man would come from the side of his dead daughter to tell me lies?” “Oh, uncle! uncle!” Alice cried, pitifully. “Yes, Alice, it is too true. I must tell you, Alice—you must know it all now, that you may agree with me that we must never speak of him again. So it went on, Alice, until the poor girl read in the papers the announcement of his marriage. Then she left her home suddenly, and her father came to-night to tell me that he had been to see her body to-day, at Gravesend.” Alice gave a little sob of horror, and hid her face on her uncle's knees. “Oh, uncle, it is too dreadful—it cannot be true!” she cried at last. “There can be no doubt, no hope, Alice. The man's story is too clear, and he was too terribly in earnest to doubt him for a moment. It seems that he found out something of it, and watched to see if Frank came here in order to test the truth of that part of the story, and he saw him come in. My dear, there is no doubt. Frank is guilty—guilty of a deliberate act of baseness, done under the worst possible circumstances. From this moment he must be to us as if he were dead. We have been utterly deceived in him. Now we really know him, there is an end of all communication between us.” “But how is it possible, uncle,” Alice pleaded, “that Frank, who has always been so true, and straightforward, and honourable, could have done it? It does not seem possible, uncle.”