“And you mean to infer that you are no longer so?” She was silent. He sat down beside her on the couch, and put his arm about her waist. “Gwen,” he said, very gravely, “we are husband and wife now, and a difference between us would be a terrible thing. Lovers’ quarrels are light things, and do to laugh over afterward; but if you are angry with me, Gwen, it can be no laughable matter. I have too much faith in your love to believe that you would blame me for nothing, and condemn me unheard, especially as you promised on our wedding-day that you would never keep anything from me.” “Have you kept all your promises?” she asked, half sadly, half resentfully. “I hope so, Gwen. If not, you have only to remind me how and when I have failed to find me eager to atone.” “You promised,” she sobbed out, “to uphold me always.” “And have I not done so?” “No.” “Do speak out, Gwen; you are torturing me,” he complained. “To be accused of a want of loyalty to my wife and not to be able to defend myself at once is terrible. What do you mean?” “You spoke to Mrs. O’Hara yesterday, although you know her to be my enemy, and I am sure you have been to see her this morning,” she blurted out, at last, half ashamed, half afraid, and yet resolute withal. “That is perfectly true as far as it goes,” replied Colonel Dacre gravely. “I did speak to Mrs. O’Hara yesterday; it would have been very difficult to pass a woman I had known so many years without some sign of recognition; I also went to call upon her this morning, at her special request.” Then he briefly gave her a summary of his interview with Norah, and laid the letter George Belmont had written to Miss Pindar in Lady Gwendolyn’s lap. “Read that,” he said, rather coldly. “You seem so ready to suspect me, Gwen, I am glad to be able to give you proofs that I am not deceiving you.” “Oh, Lawrence!” she said reproachfully; and she had an impulse to put back the letter, saying she required no confirmation of his words, but curiosity checked the generous movement, and she opened and read it instead. Her face lightened as she perused these lines, which seemed almost like a message from the grave, and when she had finished she said eagerly: “Why didn’t Miss Pindar produce this letter before?” “Because she knew nothing of the post-mortem examination, and the suspicious circumstances of his death. She lives in a quiet country place, and seldom sees a newspaper; and when Mrs. O’Hara wrote to say that her brother was dead, Miss Pindar was thankful to let well alone--even tried to persuade herself that he had died by the visitation of God, after all, and not by his own hand.” “But Mrs. O’Hara knew that I had been unjustly suspected, and should have taken care to exonerate me as quickly as possible.”