He paused for a moment; a dozen new thoughts and ideas seemed to dart through his mind. The name she had mentioned had brought again to his memory the scene with the girl, on the road outside the village, on the night of his first visit to Bamberton—the girl whom Dandy Chater was to have married, and who failed, after all, to accompany him to London. But, for all that, he had a double reason for setting her doubts at rest, and for speaking clearly and without fear. In the first place, the man to whom the question referred was dead, and beyond the reach of any earthly judgment; in the second place, Philip Chater was, of course, blameless in the matter. Therefore he said, after that momentary pause— “Indeed—no living creature weeps to-day on my account, Madge”—he felt that he must attempt the name, and was relieved to observe no start of surprise on her part. “I have had your letter; I—I wanted to thank you for it. I wish I could think that I deserved——” “Hush, dear,” she broke in, hurriedly. “All that is past and done with; haven’t I said that we start from to-day afresh. Perhaps—who knows?”—she laughed happily, and came a little nearer to him—“perhaps I’ve helped to change you—to make a new man of you. And I won’t believe a word that any one says against you—never any more!” With a gesture that was all womanly, and all beautiful, she leaned suddenly forward, and kissed him on the lips. Then, as if half ashamed of what she had done, she released her hands, and, with a quick half-whispered—“Good-bye!”—sped away from him through the wood. Philip Chater stood looking after her, for a few moments, in a bewildered fashion; then, presently, sat down on a bank, and let his head drop into his hands. “Oh—it’s horrible!” he groaned. “Here’s a woman—one of the best in the world, I’ll be sworn—holding my hands, and kissing my lying lips, and swearing that she loves me, and will make a new man of me; and the man she loves lies at the bottom of the river. I thought this was to be a mere question of money; a matter of ‘the king is dead—long live the king!’ but when it comes to lying steadily to a woman, it’s another business altogether. Yet, what am I to do?” He sat up, and stared hopelessly before him. “If I tell her that her lover is dead, I break her heart, and endanger my own neck; on the other hand, to keep up this mad game requires more subtlety than I possess, and the Devil’s own cheek. What a mighty uncomfortable pair of shoes I’ve stepped into!” He heard a sudden rustling among the leaves near at hand, and the next moment a girlish figure sprang out, and confronted him. Raising his head slowly, from the ground upwards, he saw, first of all, a very trim little pair of shoes—a gay little Sunday frock—a remarkably neat waist—and so up to a mischievous face, shaded by a wide hat; and in that face were set the pair of black eyes which had looked at him in so audacious a manner in church, and which were regarding him roguishly enough now.