“So I did. It is necessary for your personal safety that you should know the truth at once. The gentleman whom you met in the wood last evening died two hours ago. He told me, with almost his last breath, that he had been poisoned, and sent you a message of forgiveness. All this will never transpire, of course, however wrong it may be of me to conceal the truth; but, unfortunately, there is likely to be a post-mortem examination, and in that case everything may come out. Are you prepared to face it?” “What do you mean? Are you mad?” she exclaimed, with a look of apprehension that was really splendid acting. “You cannot wonder that I doubt your sanity, since a few hours ago you were pretending to love me, and now you actually dare to accuse me of a horrible crime.” “Look here, Lady Gwendolyn,” he said hoarsely; “my love was no pretense, and you know it; my accusation is no falsehood, and you know that, too. I witnessed your first meeting with the wretched man who is dead. I know that you were together again last night, for I was in the wood at about nine o’clock, and I heard him address you in terms of reproach. Of course I witnessed nothing that passed after this, for I hurried away as fast as I could; but at three o’clock the poor creature, who had evidently tried to crawl to the inn for aid, died at the roadside, with his head on my arm; his last words being: ‘Tell her I forgive her, and----’ Perhaps you can fill up the hiatus. I pretend to understand nothing that I did not see and hear.” She listened to him in stupefied silence, and when he had finished, she said, in a low, shrinking voice: “Describe the man to me.” Colonel Dacre had not forgotten his appearance, and drew his portrait accurately enough. Lady Gwendolyn’s head sank lower and lower on her breast. “And he told you he had been poisoned?” she asked. “Yes; and a man does not lie at such a time.” “He might have been mistaken,” she said, under her breath. “Impossible!” “You would rather believe the worst, I see.” “On the contrary, I would give my right arm to be able to trust you, Lady Gwendolyn,” he cried vehemently. “If I live to be a hundred years old I shall never have such a sorrow as this--to be forced to judge the woman I loved better than my life.” He expected a disdainful smile, but none came. She only passed her hand over her brow, as if she were confused. Then, suddenly, her lips took a resolute fold, and she lifted her head boldly. “He did not mention my name?” she said. “No.” “Then you know nothing?” “People do not commit such dark deeds before witnesses; but I fancy such evidence as I could give, if I chose, would hang any one.” She shuddered convulsively--it was the first sign of actual fear she had shown. “You surely can have no motive for interfering in the matter,” she said, after a long pause; and watching his face anxiously as she spoke.