"I!" He started back amazed. "Beatrice, I may be bad, but I am not so evil as that. I hated Alpenny, and had every reason to hate him, but I never laid a finger on the poor wretch. I did not kill him myself, nor can I tell you who killed him. Ah," he went on, half to himself, "Durban said something of this--about the key of the small gate--but he explained." "Is what he said true?" "Perfectly true. I am innocent. It is not the murder that is a bar to divide us. I could face that out; but there are other things which prevent my being a free agent." "Have you a master, then?" "I have those about me who know too much," said Vivian fiercely, "and if anything would make me stain my hands with blood, it would be the knowledge that I am the sport of thieves and vagabonds. How it will all end I do not know--for me, that is. But for you, my best and dearest"--he made a step forward, but she evaded him.--"for you, I know the end. You must come to Convent Grange and----" "Go to the Grange, after what you have said?" she flamed out. "I shall not trouble you. I shall go to town. You can stay with Dinah and with Mrs. Lilly for a time. Then Durban and I will see if we cannot get you some money from Mrs.--that is, from Lady Watson." "Why should she give it to me?" asked Beatrice, shrugging. "Because"--he began, then ended abruptly--"I cannot tell you." "Vivian"--Beatrice moved swiftly forward and laid a firm hand on his shoulder--"I do not understand all this. Mr. Alpenny, poor wretch, hinted at crimes on your part." "Do you believe him?" asked Vivian, turning his haggard young face towards her. "No," she said firmly. "I love you too well for that." "God bless you!" A tear dropped on the hand, which he kissed. She drew it away. "But you are not open with me; you are not honest with me. If you have troubles, I have a right to share them. Tell me of this barrier." "No," said Vivian firmly. "I cannot. I dare not. All I can say is that the barrier may be removed in time. Only trust me." "Has the barrier to do with this crime?" "In some ways." "And with the death of Colonel Hall?" "What do you know of that?" asked Paslow, amazed. "Very little; but Mrs. Snow hinted----" "That woman! She'll make mischief if she can. Don't trust her. She hates you, Beatrice." "Why should she? I hardly know her." "But she knows you--that is, she knows of you. To explain what it all means would be to tell you much that I would rather you did not know--that you must never know." "I am not a child----" "You are the woman I love, and therefore I shall not allow your mind to be tainted with--with--with what I could tell you," he ended rather weakly.