“I think I needed it!” he said; and in a sudden fit of rage seized the glass and, moving a few steps forward, flung it crashing into the grate. Then he turned and faced the girl, flushed to the forehead, but stirred to almost unwilling respect. “There is not one woman of your station in a thousand who would have had the courage to do that,” he said. “Still, it is preposterous to think that there was the least reason for it.” “Tony,” said the girl very slowly, “I fancy I should hate you if you ever made it necessary for me to do as much again, but we will try not to remember it. What has been troubling you?” Tony was glad of the opening, though under different circumstances he would not have availed himself of it. “I’ll try to tell you,” he said. “I am afraid Godfrey Palliser is very shaky. In fact he was oppressively morbid to‐night.” “No,” said the girl. “I know what you mean, but morbid is not the right word. Your uncle is now and then pedantic but one could only feel respect for him to‐day.” “Of course!” said Tony. “I shall be very genuinely sorry if his fancies turn out right. That, however, is not the question. He asked me if I still believed in Bernard, and I had a difficult thing to do. It seems that your faith in the man had almost convinced him. He wanted to believe him innocent, and leave him something in his will.” “And you told him—” “What could I tell him? Only that I was not so sure of Bernard as I had been.” There was a gleam of something very like anger in Violet Wayne’s eyes. “So you shattered the faint hope he clung to, and turned the forgiveness, which, mistaken or not, would have been a precious thing just now, into vindictive bitterness!” “He asked me,” said Tony. “What could I do?” “You could have defended your friend—the man who has done so much for you.” Tony stared at her, and once more the girl felt a little shiver of apprehension when she saw his face, but in a moment he recovered himself. “I want to know exactly what you mean by that?” he said. “Isn’t it evident from what you have told me of your early days?” Tony’s apprehension disappeared, for it seemed he had been mistaken. “Of course!” he said. “Still, the difficulty was that I couldn’t urge anything. I can’t see why you believe in Bernard, Violet. Isn’t it plain that—it must have been either he or I?” Tony was not devoid of a certain cunning, and the boldness of the question had its effect, but the girl’s eyes gleamed as she said, “I could almost as soon believe you guilty as Bernard Appleby.” “Then,” said Tony with a quietness which served him very well, “I am sorry you have so little confidence in me!” Violet stood still a moment, a trifle pale in face, and very erect. Then she made a little gesture, and her lips trembled. “Tony,” she said simply, “you will forgive me that, though I scarcely deserve it. If I could have meant it would I have done—what I did a little while ago?”