"His brother was not murdered," Mr. Yelverton replied. "Many people thought so, of course--people have a way of thinking the worst in these cases, not from malice, but because it is more interesting--and a tradition to that effect survives still, I am afraid. But my uncle's family never suspected him of such a crime. The thing was not legally proved, one way or the other. There were strong indications in the position of the gun which lay by his side, and in the general appearance of the spot where he was found, that my uncle, Patrick Yelverton, accidentally shot himself; that was the opinion of the coroner's jury, and the conviction of the family. But poor Kingscote evidently assumed that he would be accused of murder. Perhaps--it is very possible--some rough-tempered action of his might have caused the catastrophe, and his remorse have had the same effect as fear in prompting him to efface himself. Anyway, no one who knew him well believed him capable of doing his brother a mischief wilfully. His innocence was, indeed, proved by the fact that he married the lady who had been at the bottom of the trouble--by no fault of hers, poor soul!--after he escaped to London; and, wherever he went to, he took her with him. She disappeared a few days after he did, and was lost as completely, from that time. The record and circumstances of their marriage were discovered; and that was all. He would not have married her--she would not have married him--had he been a murderer." "Do you think not?" said Elizabeth. "That is always assumed as a matter of course, in books--that murder and--and other disgraces are irrevocable barriers between those who love each other, when they discover them. But I do not understand why. With such an awful misery to bear, they would want all that their love could give them so much _more_--not less." "You see," said Mr. Yelverton, regarding her with great interest, "it is a sort of point of honour with the one in misfortune not to drag the other down. When we are married, as when we are dead, 'it is for a long time.'" Elizabeth made no answer, but there was a quiet smile about her lips that plainly testified to her want of sympathy with this view. After a silence of a few seconds, her companion leaned forward and looked directly into her face. "Would _you_ stick to the man you loved if he had forfeited his good name or were in risk of the gallows?--I mean if he were really a criminal, and not only a suspected one?" he asked with impressive slowness. "If I had found him worthy to be loved before that," she replied, speaking collectedly, but dismayed to find herself growing crimson, "and if he cared for me--and leant on me--oh, yes! It might be wrong, but I should do it. Surely any woman would. I don't see how she could help herself."