"By Jove! Do you mean to say that you don't know there was a dreadful row one night at Fox Hill? Sir George Varney insulted Lady Valeria--called her some foul name, accused her of carrying on with a young man. The General came up at the moment and smashed his head. Sir George went all over the place next day, abusing my lady, sent the General a summons to the police-court, where the whole story must have come out _in extenso_, as those, newspaper fellows say. A very ugly story it is--betting transactions, borrowed money, and a lover in the background. An uncommonly queer story, my dear Grahame. Plymouth was on the _qui-vive_ for a tremendous scandal. You know what these garrison and dockyard towns are, and a man in the General's position is a mark for slander. The thing was altogether too awful, and the poor old General wouldn't face it. He wouldn't face it, old chap, and he died." "You mean to say that he----" "I mean to say nothing. There was no inquest. The poor old man kept his bed for a week, and the cause of death was called bronchitis; but there are people I know who have their own idea about the General's death, and a very ugly idea it is." "Your friends have a _penchant_ for ugly ideas, Falconer," answered Bothwell coolly. He did not believe a word of the subaltern's story, and yet the thought of it troubled him as he sat alone in his corner of the smoking-carriage, trying to solace himself with a pipe, trying to think only of the girl he loved, and of his brightening prospects. That mention of a lover! How much or how little did it mean? Could it be true that General Harborough had knocked a man down in his own house? Such an act on the part of the most chivalrous of men must have been the result of extraordinary provocation. Only a deliberate insult to a woman could excuse such an outrage against the laws of hospitality. He remembered that Lady Valeria had talked of borrowing money from Sir George Varney; and what could she expect but insult if she placed herself under obligation to a notorious _roue?_ He had warned her of the folly of such a course. He had urged her to confide in her husband. And now that good and loyal friend and protector was gone; and this last act of his wife's had left her to face the world with a damaged reputation. He told himself that there must be some grain of truth in the subaltern's story, some fire behind this smoke. The scandal too nearly touched actual facts to be altogether false. "God help her if her good name is at the mercy of such a scoundrel as Varney!" thought Bothwell. He left Penmorval in a dog-cart next morning, carrying his portmanteau and a box of books at the back. He was to have the use of the dog-cart and Glencoe while he stayed at Trevena, so that he should not feel himself altogether banished. He could ride over to Penmorval occasionally.