“Hell and confusion, you will drive me mad,” cried Mark, stamping his foot with passion. “This infernal mixture of truth and falsehood--this half fact and all lying statement is more than my brain can bear. What does this scoundrel mean--is it that I am guilty of a robbery?” “Heaven forbid, boy, but that you lived on terms of closest friendship with one branded as a felon, and that information of your intimacy with him was obtained by the police, who, for political reasons--you are aware of what I mean--would strain a point to have caught you within their grasp. There were letters too, Mark, written by you, and of such a character as would, if proved against you, haye cost your life; these, Hemsworth, by some means, obtained and destroyed.” “Ah, did he so,” cried Mark, eagerly, for now a sudden light broke in upon him of the game that Hemsworth had played, “and so, he burned my letters?” “You know now, then, something of the services he rendered you,” said the old man, who began at last to be satisfied that his conviction was coming home to Mark's mind. “I do,” replied he, calmly, “I believe that I can appreciate his kindness, and I believe also I may promise that I shall not prove ungrateful--and Kate, sir, what said she to those revelations concerning me?” “What we all said, Mark, that nothing dishonourable would ever lie at your door--there might be rashness, imprudence, and folly, but guilt or dishonour never.” “And my uncle, he is generally a shrewd and cautious judge--what was his opinion?” “Faith it is hard to say, Mark, but I think with all his affected freedom from prejudice, he nourishes his old notions about Hemsworth as strong as ever, and persists in thinking the Travers' family everything amiable and high-minded, indeed, he forced me to let Herbert accompany them to England, for I let him take the boy into his own hands, and so, as the invitation had been made and accepted before Kate had refused the Captain's offer, I thought it would look better even to suffer matters to take their course quietly, as if nothing had happened.” “It was well done,” said Mark, assentingly, “and now I have heard enough to dream over for one night at least, and so I'll to bed.” “Remember, Mark,” said the O'Donoghue, grasping his son's arm, “remember I am solemnly pledged to Hemsworth never to tell you anything of these matters--it was a promise he exacted from me--I rely upon you, Mark, not to betray me.” “My discretion is above price, sir,” said Mark, smiling dubiously, and left the room. CHAPTER XXXVI. SUSPICIONS ON EVERY SIDE