“I don’t say disreputable, my Lord; but I venture to suggest that there may have been some—ahem—some awkward entanglement—with a married woman, for instance,—and the husband—or another lover—may have belonged to the criminal classes. There are men who think very little of murder when they fancy themselves ill-used by a woman. Half the midnight brawls, and nearly half the murders, in the metropolis are caused by jealousy. I know what a large factor that is in the sum-total of crime, and unless you are sure there was no entanglement——” “I am as sure as I can be of anything outside my own existence. I don’t believe that Sir Godfrey ever cared for any woman in his life except my daughter.” “He might not have cared, my Lord, but he might have been drawn in,” suggested Mr. Churton. “Young men are apt to be weak where women are concerned; and women know that, unfortunately, and they don’t scruple to use their power; not the best of ’em even.” Young men are apt to be weak. Yes, Lord Cheriton had seen enough of the world to know that this was true. It was just possible that in that young life, which had seemed white as snow to the eye of kindred and friends, there had been one dark secret, one corroding stain, temptation yielded to, promises given—never to be fulfilled. Such things have been in many lives, in most lives, perhaps, could we know all, Lord Cheriton thought, as he sat silently meditating upon the detective’s suggestions. Lady Jane might know something about her son’s past, perhaps, something that she might have kept locked in the beneficent maternal heart. He determined to sound her delicately at the earliest opportunity. But on being sounded Lady Jane repudiated any such possibility. No, again and again no. His youth had been spotless; no hint of an intrigue had ever reached her from any quarter. He had chosen his friends among the most honourable young men at the University—his amusements had been such as became a young Englishman of exalted position—he had never stooped to low associations or even doubtful company; and from his boyhood upwards he had adored Juanita. “That love alone would have kept him right,” said Lady Jane; “but I do not believe that it was in his nature to go wrong.” It would seem, therefore, that the detective’s suspicion was groundless. Jealousy could not have been the motive of the crime. “If any of us could be sure that we know each other I ought to accept Lady Jane’s estimate of her son,” thought Lord Cheriton; “but there is always the possibility of an unrevealed nature—one phase in a character that has escaped discovery. I am almost inclined to think the detective may have hit upon the truth. There _must_ have been a motive for this devilish act—unless it were done by a maniac.” The latter supposition seemed hardly probable. Lunacy wandering loose about the country would have betrayed itself before now.