Bernard's hand closed upon his. "Go ahead!" he said again, "I'm all right." Everard made an abrupt gesture that had in it something of surrender. "It's soon told," he said, "though I don't know why I should burden you with it. That fellow Ralph Dacre--I didn't murder him. I wish to Heaven I had. So far as I know--he is alive." "Ah!" Bernard said Jerkily, with obvious effort, Everard continued. "I'm a murderous brute no doubt. But if I had the chance to kill him now, I'd take it. You see what it means, don't you? It means that Stella--that Stella--" He broke off with a convulsive movement, and dropped back into a tortured silence. "Yes. I see what it means," Bernard said. After an interval Everard forced out a few more words. "About a fortnight after their marriage I got your letter telling me he had a wife living. I went straight after them in native disguise, and made him clear out. That's the whole story." "I see," Bernard said again. Again there fell a silence between them. Everard sat bowed, his head on his hand. The awful pallor was passing, but the stricken look remained. Bernard spoke at last. "You have no idea what became of him?" "Not the faintest. He went. That was all that concerned me." Grimly, without lifting his head, he made answer. "You know the rest--or you can guess. Then you came, and told me that the woman--Dacre's wife--died before his marriage to Stella. I've been in hell ever since." "I wish to Heaven I'd stopped away!" Bernard exclaimed with sudden vehemence. Everard shifted his position slightly to glance at him. "Don't wish that!" he said. "After all, it would probably have come out somehow." "And--Stella?" Bernard spoke with hesitation, as if uncertain of his ground. "What does she think? How much does she know?" "She thinks like the rest. She thinks I murdered the hound. And I'd rather she thought that," there was dogged suffering in Everard's voice, "than suspected the truth." "You think--" Bernard still spoke with slight hesitation--"that will hurt her less?" "Yes." There was stubborn conviction in the reply. Everard slowly straightened himself and faced his brother squarely. "There is--the child," he said. Bernard shook his head slightly. "You're wrong, old fellow. You're making a mistake. You are choosing the hardest course for her as well as yourself." Everard's jaw hardened. "I shall find a way out for myself," he said. "She shall be left in peace." "What do you mean?" Bernard said. Then as he made no reply, he took him firmly by the shoulders. "No--no! You won't. You won't," he said. "That's not you, my boy--not when you've sanely thought it out." Everard suffered his hold; but his face remained set in grim lines. "There is no other way," he said. "Honestly, I see no other way." "There is another way." Very steadily, with the utmost confidence, Bernard made the assertion. "There always is. God sees to that. You'll find it presently."