Bothwell walked on without a word. Ten minutes brought them to the gates of Penmorval, by far the lordlier domain, with a history that was rich in aristocratic traditions. But that ancient race for which Penmorval had been built, for whose sons and daughters it had grown in grandeur and dignity as the centuries rolled along--of _these_ there remained no more than the echo of a vanished renown. They were gone, verily like a tale that is told; and the _parvenu_ financier, the man who had grown rich by his own intellect and his own industry--naturally a very inferior personage--reigned in their stead. Penmorval seemed not quite so dead asleep as Heathcote Grange, _alias_ The Spaniards. In the sweet stillness of the summer evening, Bothwell and his companion heard voices--women's voices--familiar and pleasant to the ears of both. Mrs. Wyllard was strolling in the avenue, with a young lady by her side, a girl in a white gown and a large leghorn hat; tall, slight, graceful of form, and fair of face--a girl who gave a little cry of pleased surprise at seeing Heathcote. "I was just rushing home, Edward," she said, "for fear I should keep you waiting for dinner." "Indeed, Hilda! Then I can only say that your idea of rushing is my idea of sauntering," her brother answered, smiling at the girlish face, as he shook hands with Mrs. Wyllard. "What did Mr. Wyllard think of the inquest?" he asked. "You have seen him, I suppose?" "Only for a minute as he drove by to the house, while Hilda and I were walking in the avenue. Why, Bothwell, how fagged and ill you look!" exclaimed Dora to her cousin. "Only bored," answered Bothwell, which was not complimentary to the companion of his long walk. "But you look positively exhausted, poor fellow," pursued Dora pityingly. "Why didn't you come back in the dog-cart? There was room for you." "I wanted to be alone." "And I wanted company," said Heathcote, laughing, "so I inflicted my society upon an unwilling companion. Very bad manners, no doubt." "I'm afraid you got the worst of the bargain," muttered Bothwell, with a sullen look, at which Hilda's blue eyes opened wide with wonder. "Do you know, Mr. Heathcote, an idle life does not agree with my cousin," said Dora. "I never know what it is to be weary of Penmorval or the country round; but for the last three or four weeks Bothwell has behaved as if he hated the place, and could find neither rest nor amusement within twenty miles of us. He is perpetually running off to Plymouth or to London." "I wish women would take to reading their dictionaries, instead of cramming their heads with other women's novels," exclaimed Bothwell savagely, "for then perhaps they might have some idea of the meaning of words. When you say I run up to London perpetually, Dora, I suppose you mean that I have been there twice--on urgent business, by the way--within the last five weeks."