"My own heart," and Brendon took her in his strong arms, thanking God for the gift of so steadfast a heart. For a few minutes silence reigned, and the lovers looked at one another with fond affection. Dorothy was tall and slim and dark, with a Spanish face of that delicate, high-bred cast which is seen to perfection among the women of Andalusia. Judging by her large black eyes, and the serious expression of her lips, Dorothy Ward might have had Moorish blood in her veins. Perhaps she had, as one of her father's ancestors, when ambassador to Madrid in the reign of the first James, had brought back with him a Spanish wife. And Dorothy inherited all the Iberian beauty of that lady. She should have been called Inez, or Paquita, for the purely English name of Dorothy suited her badly. That is a milkmaid's name, and Miss Ward was more of the court than of the pasture. Her dark beauty contrasted well with the fair comeliness of George Brendon, and seated side by side on the sofa they looked an extremely handsome couple. Certainly they might have appeared happier, for Dorothy was downcast, and in Brendon's blue eyes there lurked a worried look. He was wondering how he could communicate Mrs. Ward's decision to the girl. Dorothy looked at him and smiled. "A penny for your thoughts, George," she said, taking his hand. "I'll sell them as bankrupt stock," said Brendon, drawing her closer, and then he took his courage in both hands for the necessary confession. "This may be my last visit, Dorothy," he said. She looked at him in surprise. "Why do you say that?" "Your mother----" "Oh, never mind my mother," broke in the girl, petulantly. "I know she objects to our marriage, so----" "On the contrary, she told me that she would not object if I could clear myself of complicity in this crime." "George! Did she accuse you of----" "Not in so many words," interrupted the lover, "but I saw very plainly what she meant. The fact that I slept in that house on the night Mrs. Jersey was murdered is to her mind a proof that I have something to do with the matter." "But you can prove conclusively that you have not," insisted Dorothy. "Certainly. Mr. Train, with whom I was stopping, can prove that I did not leave my room. The key of the sitting-room door was in his possession, and to get out I should have had to make use of him." George paused and thought for a moment. "But there is one thing----" "What is it?" asked Dorothy, seeing that he hesitated. "I don't know if I ought to tell you." "Whatever concerns you concerns me," she said, pressing his hand to her heart. "You know that I love you as dearly as you love me, and nothing you tell me shall ever part us." "Oh, I don't think what I am about to say will have that effect," was Brendon's reply, "but I have a confession to make about my--my birth." Dorothy looked at him in amazement. "About your birth?" she repeated. "Yes. You may as well know all, and I know you will not betray me, even to your mother."