"Don't take it to heart, Hugo, whatever it may be. It cannot be worse than the thing I have heard already--from my mother. I don't suppose I shall mind it much. They say, perhaps, that I--that I shot my brother"--(in spite of himself, Brian's voice trembled with passionate indignation)--"that I killed Richard purposely--knowing what I did--in order to possess myself of this miserable estate of his--is that what they say?" Hugo answered by a bare little monosyllable-- "Yes." "And who says this?" "Everyone. The whole country side." "Then--if this is believed so generally--why have no steps been taken to prove my guilt? Good God, my guilt! Why should I not be prosecuted at once for murder?" "There would be no evidence, they say." Hugo murmured, uneasily. "It is simply a matter of assertion; you say you shot at a bird, not seeing him, and they say that you must have known that he was there. That is all." "A matter of assertion! Well, they are right so far. If they don't believe my word, there is no more to be said," replied Brian, sadly, his excitement suddenly forsaking him. "Only I never thought that my word would even be asked for on such a subject by people who had known me all my life. You don't doubt me, do you, Hugo?" "How could I?" said Hugo, in a voice so low and shaken that Brian could scarcely hear the words. But he felt instinctively that the lad's trust in him, on that one point, at least, had not wavered, and with a warm thrill of affection and gratitude he held out his hand. It gave him a rude shock to see that Hugo drew back and would not take it. "What! you don't trust me after all?" he said, quickly. "I--I do," cried Hugo, "but--what does it matter what I think? I'm not fit to take your hand--I cannot--I cannot----" His emotion was so genuine that Brian felt some surprise, and also some compunction for having distrusted him before. "Dear Hugo," he said, gently, "I shall know you better now. We have always been friends; don't forget that we are friends still, although I may be on the other side of the world. I'm going to try and lose myself in some out-of-the-way place, and live where nobody will ever know my story, but I shall be rather glad to think sometimes that, at any rate, you understand what I felt about poor Richard--that you never once misjudged me--I won't forget it, Hugo, I assure you." He pressed Hugo's still reluctant hand, and then made him sit down beside him upon the fallen tree. "We must talk business now," he said, more cheerfully--though it was a sad kind of cheerfulness after all--"for we have not much time left. I hear the luncheon-bell already. Shall we finish our talk first? You don't care for luncheon? No more do I. Where had we got to? Only to the initial step--that I was going abroad. I have several other things to explain to you."