Long ago, as a young man, Awdrey had admired Hetty's real beauty, but no thought other than that of simple admiration had entered his brain. His was not the nature to be really attracted by a woman below himself in station. Now, however, his pulse beat a little faster than its wont as he glanced at her. He remembered with a swift, poignant sense of regret all that she had done for him and suffered for him. He could see traces of the trouble through which she had lived in her face; that trouble and her present anxiety gave a piquancy to her beauty which differentiated it widely from the ordinary beauty of the rustic village girl. As he watched her he forgot for a moment what she had come to speak to him about. Then he remembered it, and he drew himself together, but a pang shot through his heart. He thought of the small deceit which he was guilty of in drawing down the blind and placing himself and his auditor where no one from the outside could observe them. "You want to speak to me," he said abruptly. "What about?" "You must know, Mr. Robert," began Hetty. Her coral lips trembled, she looked like some one who would break down into hysterical weeping at any moment. "This must be put a stop to," Awdrey bestowed another swift glance upon her, and took her measure. "I cannot pretend ignorance," he said, "but please try not to lose your self-control." Hetty gulped down a great sob; the tears in her eyes were not allowed to fall. "Then you remember?" she said. Awdrey nodded. "You remember everything, Mr. Robert?" Awdrey nodded again. "But you forgot at the time, sir." Awdrey stood up; he put his hands behind him. "I forgot absolutely," he said. "I suffered from the doom of my house. A cloud fell on me, and I knew no more than a babe unborn." "I guessed that, sir; I was certain of it. That was why I took your part." Awdrey waited until she was silent. Then he continued in a monotonous, strained tone. "I have found my memory again. Four or five months ago at the beginning of this winter I came here. I visited the spot where the murder was committed, and owing to a chain of remarkable circumstances, which I need not repeat to you, the memory of my deed came back to me." "You killed him, sir, because he provoked you," said Hetty. "You were present and you saw everything?" "I was, sir, I saw everything. You killed him because he provoked you." "I killed him through an accident. I did so in self-defence." "Yes, sir." Hetty also stood up. She sighed deeply. "The knowledge of it has nearly killed me," she said at last, sinking back again into her seat. "I am not surprised at that," said the Squire. "You did what you did out of consideration for me, and I suppose I ought to be deeply indebted to you"--he paused and looked fixedly at her--"all the same," he continued, "I fully believe it would have been much better had you not sworn falsely in court--had you not given wrong evidence."