“He was wrong. It is final.” “But--” “I had rather not discuss that, Miss Colton.” She looked at me oddly, and with a faint smile. “Very well,” she said, after a moment, “we will not discuss it now. But you cannot suppose that either Father or I will permit you to suffer on our account.” “There is no suffering. I sold the land to your father deliberately and with complete knowledge of the consequences. As to the bank--well, I am no worse off than I was before I entered its employ. I am satisfied.” She toyed with her coffee spoon. “Captain Dean seems to be the only person in Denboro who knows of the sale,” she said. “Why has he kept it a secret?” “I don't know. Has he?” “You know he has, Mr. Paine. Mr. Cahoon did not know of it, and he would be one of the first to hear. It seems odd that the captain should tell no one.” “Probably he is waiting for the full particulars. He will tell, you may be sure of that. His last remark to me was that he should drive me out of Denboro.” I rather expected a burst of indignation. In fact I was somewhat hurt and disappointed that it did not come. She merely smiled once more. “He has not done it yet,” she said. “If he knew why you sold that land--your real reason for selling it--he would not drive you away, or try to.” I was startled and alarmed. “What do you mean?” I asked quickly. “If he knew he would not drive you away, would he?” “He will never know.” “Perhaps he may. Perhaps the person for whose sake you sold it may tell him.” “Indeed he will not! I shall see to that.” “Oh, then there is such a person! I was sure of it before. Now you have told me.” Before I could recover from the mental disturbance and chagrin which my slip and her quick seizure of it caused me, the butler re-entered the room. “Mrs. Colton is awake and asking for you, Miss Mabel,” he said. “The doctor thinks you had better go to her at once, if you please.” With a word of apology to me, she hurried away. I rose from the table. I had had breakfast enough. The interruption had come at a fortunate time for me. Her next question might have forced me to decline to answer--which would have been equivalent to admitting the truth--or to lie. One thing I determined to do without delay. I would write Taylor at once warning him to be more close-mouthed than ever. Under no conditions would I permit him to speak. If it were necessary I would go to Washington, where he and Nellie were spending their honeymoon, and make him promise to keep silence. His telling the truth might ruin him, and it certainly would not help me. In the one essential thing--the one which was clenching my determination to leave Denboro as soon as I could and seek forgetfulness and occupation elsewhere--no one could help me. I must help myself, or be miserable always. Just now the eternal misery seemed inevitable, no matter what I did.