"He was in debt, my girl," cried the colonel. "You don't understand the position of a young man placed as he was. Herresford was understood to have discarded him as his heir. No doubt the young fellow had raised money on his expectations. Creditors were making existence a burden to him. Many a soldier has ended things with a revolver and an inquest for less than seven thousand dollars." "Ah, that sort of death requires a different kind of courage," sneered Ormsby, who was nettled by Dora's taunts. "I won't listen to you," she cried. "You are defaming the man I love. He couldn't go away with such things on his conscience. It is all some wicked plot." Ormsby shrugged his shoulders, and the colonel sighed despondently, while Dora swept out of the room, drawing her skirts away from Ormsby as though his touch were contamination. CHAPTER XIV MRS. SWINTON CONFESSES Those who heard of the heroic death of Dick Swinton soon heard also of the disgraceful circumstances surrounding his departure. His volunteering was now looked upon as a flight from justice; his death as a suicide to avoid the inevitable punishment of his crime. Everybody knew--except the rector. He, poor man, comforted in his sorrow by the thought that his son's memory would be forever glorious, manfully endeavored to stifle his misery and go about his daily tasks. The sympathy of his parishioners was not made apparent by their bearing toward him. He was disappointed in not receiving more direct consolation from his friends and those with whom he was in direct and almost daily communication. There was something shamefaced in their attitude. His churchwardens mumbled a few words of regret, and turned away, confused. People avoided him in the street, for the simple reason that they knew not what attitude to take in such painful circumstances. The stricken man was very conscious of, but could not understand, the constraint and diffidence of those people who did pluck up sufficient courage to say they were sorry. The revelation came, not through the proper channel--his wife--but from an old friend who met the rector in the street, one afternoon, and spoke out. He offered his hand, and, gripping the clergyman's slender, delicate white fingers, exclaimed: "I'm sorry for you, Swinton, and sorry for the lad. He died like a man, and I'll not believe it was to avoid disgrace." "Avoid disgrace?" cried the rector, astounded. "Ay; many a man has gone to war because his country was too hot to hold him. But your son was different. If he did steal his grandfather's money, he meant to come back. Thieves and vagabonds of that sort don't stand up against a wall with a dozen rifles at them, and refuse to speak the few words that'd save their skins." "Stole his grandfather's money! What do you mean?"