s of a certain superiority in himself, neither physical
nor in any way connected with material circumstances, over the majority
of his fellows. And as the realization of this swept in upon her, and
her faith in him suddenly leaped up with a new-born strength, there came
with it a passionate desire to hear him proclaim his innocence with his
own lips, and, having heard it, to banish for ever doubts and
suspicions, and give herself up to this new sweetness which was hovering
around her life. She caught hold of his hand, but dropped it almost at
once, for the fire which flashed into his face at the touch of her
fingers half frightened her. He had come to a sudden standstill, and
before his eyes she felt hers droop and the hot color burn her cheeks.
What had come to her? She could not tell. She was nervous, almost faint,
with the dawning promise of a bewildering happiness. Yet her desire
still clung to her, and she found words to express it.

"I cannot bear this any longer," she cried. "I must ask you a question,
and you must answer it. The thought of it all is driving me mad."

"For God's sake, ask me nothing!" he said in a deep hollow tone. "Let me
go back. I should not be here with you."

"You shall not go," she answered. "Stand there where the light falls
upon your face, and answer me. Was it you who killed Sir Geoffrey
Kynaston? Tell me, for I will know."

There was a dead silence, which seemed to her fevered nerves
intolerable. From all around them came the quiet drip, drip, of the
rain, from the bending boughs on to the damp soaked ground, and at that
moment a slight breeze from over the moorland stirred amongst the
branches, and the moisture which hung upon them descended in little
showers. From below, the dull roar of the sea came up to them in a
muffled undertone, like a melancholy background to the slighter sound.
There was an indescribable dreariness about it all which quickened the
acute agony of those few moments.

More awful than anything to her was the struggle which she saw in that
white strained face half hidden in his clasped hands. What could
hesitation mean but guilt? What need was there for it? Her feet seemed
turned to stone upon the cold ground, and her heart almost stopped
beating. There was a film before her eyes, and yet she saw his face
still, though dimly, and as if it were far off. She saw his hands
withdrawn, and she saw his ashen lips part slowly.

"I did not kill Sir Geoffrey Kynaston,