That was the honest truth, and they had to confess as much to Gwen Boynton that afternoon. She looked a little haggard as she listened even while she protested bravely that in her opinion the vile creature would never dare to put her lies to the proof. So they sat and played at cross purposes; for she could not tell them of the papers she held in absolute disproof of what would be the first accusation, and they wished if possible to save her from the knowledge of George Keene's suicide. Perhaps if they had set their own feelings aside and told her the truth, she might even then have confessed her lion's share in the blame. But only perhaps; for she was a clever woman, capable of seeing that her confession could do no good now, and that she had, as it were, lost her right to save poor George from suspicion. Besides, she had brought herself to believe in the duty of denial; for, like many another woman, she required a really virtuous motive before she could do a really wrong thing; in sober fact--even in her worst aberrations from the truth--never losing hold of a fixed desire to be amiable and estimable. To this self-deception, as was natural, Lewis Gordon's half-hearted belief was gall and wormwood, while Dan's wholesale confidence was balm indeed. She could not refrain from telling him so when the former, pleading stress of work, left the latter alone with her beside the cosy little tea-table glittering in the firelight; for Gwen was one of those people who will never have been more comfortable in body and soul than they are on their death-beds. 'Now, don't spoil it all, dear, by wanting me to marry you to-morrow,' she said half-laughing, half-crying. 'We are all too busy for such talk, and too sad--at least I am. He was so good to me--you don't know how good. I shall break my heart if this vile creature succeeds in sullying his memory.' 'It will not be your fault, dear, if she does; that is one comfort.' A chance shot may hit the quarry truer than the best aim, and Gwen turned quickly towards him with a little cry. 'Dan! you will prevent it, won't you? You are so clever, and, really, it is for my sake as well as for his. For my sake you will, won't you?' 'I do everything for your sake--you know that,' he answered simply. Gwen stared at him as if she had seen a ghost. Perhaps she did; the ghost of a dead boy who had said those very words to her in that very room not a month ago. 'Gwen! what is it?' came Dan's voice sharply, anxiously. 'What is the matter?--tell me.' Yes! The past was repeating itself. _He_ had begged her to tell him also, and in her selfishness, her fear, she had yielded, and put a needless pain into his life at its close. She would not yield again; in denial lay her duty. 'Nothing is the matter,' she echoed, 'save this--that you say we can do nothing. I do not believe it. God will never let these lies prevail--He will never let my poor lad's memory suffer--never, never!'