"I do," returns Sartoris, slowly, but with his eyes upon the ground. "How can I do otherwise when I call to mind all the causes you have given me to doubt you? Have you forgotten that day, now some months ago, when I met you and that unhappy girl together on the road to the village? I, at least, shall never forget the white misery of her face, and the unmistakable confusion in her manner, as I greeted her. Even then the truth began to dawn upon me." "The truth?" says Branscombe, with a short and bitter laugh. "At that time I was unwilling to harbor unkind doubts of you in my breast," goes on Sartoris, unmoved, nay, rather confirmed in his suspicions by Branscombe's sneer; "but then came the night of the Hunt ball, when I met you, alone with her, in the most secluded part of the grounds, and when you were unable to give me any reasonable explanation of her presence there; and then, a little later, I find a handkerchief (which you yourself acknowledge having given her) lying on your library floor; about that, too, you were dumb: no excuse was ready to your lips. By your own actions I judge you." "Your suspicions make you unjust, my lord," says the young man, haughtily. "They overrule your better judgment. Are such paltry evidences as you have just put forward sufficient to condemn me, or have you further proofs?" "I have,--a still stronger one than any other I have mentioned. The last place in which Ruth Annersley was seen in this neighborhood was in Hurston Wood, at eight o'clock on the evening of her departure, and--you were with her!" "_I_ was?" "The man who saw you will swear to this." "He must be rather a clever fellow. I congratulate you on your 'man.'" "Do you deny it?" There is something that is almost hope in his tone. "If not there last Tuesday, at that hour, where were you?" "Well, really, it would take me all my time to remember. Probably dining: got to my fish by that time, no doubt. Later on I was at Lady Chetwoode's crush; but that"--with a sarcastic laugh--"is a very safe thing to say, is it not? One can hardly prove the presence of any one at a gathering together of the clans, such as there was at her 'at home.' I _wouldn't_ believe I was there, if I were you." He laughs again. Sartoris flushes hotly all over his lean earnest face. "It is needless lying," he says, slowly. "The very coat you wore--a light overcoat,--probably" (pointing to it) "the one you are now wearing--was accurately described." Dorian starts visibly. "Do you still hope to brave it out?" "A coat like this, do you say?" asks Branscombe, with a nervous attempt at unconcern, laying his hand upon his sleeve. "A light overcoat. Such was the description. But" (with a longing that is terribly pathetic) "many overcoats are alike. And--and I dare say you have not worn that one for months."