"Upon my soul," said Bothwell, "I begin to think they suspect me of having thrown that girl out of the carriage. Because I refused to answer that insolent ruffian's questions, these village wiseacres have made up their minds that I am a murderer." He went back to Penmorval in a white heat of indignation. A week ago he had made up his mind to start for Peru. He had found out all about the steamer which was to carry him. He had obtained letters of introduction to the proprietor of a newspaper, and to some of the local aristocracy. He was ready to set forth upon his quest of fortune in the land of gold and jewels. But now he told himself that wild horses should not drag him away from Penmorval. He would stand his ground until he had humiliated those fools and rascals whom he had once called his friends. He would make them taste of the cup of their own folly. He was much too hot-headed to keep the secret of his wrongs from that cousin who had been to him as a sister. He went straight to Dora, and told her of the foul suspicion that had arisen in men's minds against him. She had read the report of the inquest, and although she had wondered at his refusal to answer Mr. Distin's questions, she had been able to understand that his pride might revolt against being so catechised, and that he might choose to persist in that refusal as a point of personal dignity. "Any one who can suspect you for such a reason--any one who could suspect you for any reason--must be an idiot, Bothwell," she exclaimed. "There is no use in being angry with such people." "But I am angry with them. I am rabid with anger." "Why did you not answer that question, Bothwell?" asked his cousin thoughtfully. "Because I did not choose." "Yet it would have prevented all possibility of misapprehension if you had given a straight answer. And it would have been so easy," argued Dora. "It would not have been easy. It was not possible to answer that question." "Why not?" "Because I could not answer it without injuring some one I--esteem," replied Bothwell, relapsing into that curious, sullen manner which Mr. Heathcote had observed on the day of the inquest. "O Bothwell, you have secrets, then--a secret from me, your adopted sister!" "Yes, I have my secrets." "I am so sorry. I used to hope that I should have a share in the planning of your life; and now I begin to fear----" "That my life is wrecked already. You are right, Dora. My life was wrecked three years before I left India, but I did not know then what shipwreck meant. I thought that there was land ahead, and that I should make it; but I know now I was drifting towards a fatal rock upon which honour, happiness, and prosperity must needs go to pieces." "Don't talk in riddles, Bothwell. Tell me the plain truth, however bad it may be. You know you can trust me."