The door had been opened to Cynthia by a strange servant. She asked if Mr. Lepel was at home—a conventionalism of which she immediately repented. Was he well enough to see anybody, at least? she asked.

The girl did not know, but asked her to walk inside. Mr. Lepel was better; he was dressed every day and sat in the drawing-room; but he had not seen any visitors as yet. He was in the drawing-room now, she thought, and he was alone.

"I will go up," said Cynthia decidedly. "You need not announce me. I will go myself; he knows me very well."

The girl fell back doubtfully; but Cynthia's tone was so resolute, her air so assured, that there was nothing for it but to give way. Besides Mrs. Vane was out, and nobody had said what was to be done in case of visitors.

Cynthia went in very quietly. Hubert was lying on a sofa in the darkest corner of the room. The blinds were partially closed; but she could see his face, and she thought at first that he was asleep. His eyes were closed, his hands were stretched at his sides; his attitude was expressive of the utmost langour and weariness. She came a little nearer and looked at him closely. His frame was sadly wasted, and there was an expression of suffering and melancholy upon his face that touched her deeply. She drew nearer and nearer to the sofa; but he did not look up until she was almost close to him. Then he opened his eyes. She cried "Hubert!" and dropped on her knees beside him, so as to bring her face upon a level with his own. She put her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

"Oh, Hubert," she said, "I could not stay away! I love you, my darling—I love you in spite of all! Will you forgive me for being so cruel when I saw you last?"

She felt him tremble a little.

"Cynthia!" he said; and then with a sudden gesture he threw his arm around her, rested his head upon her shoulder, and burst into tears—tears of weakness in part, but tears also of love, of penitence, of almost unbearable relief.

She held him close to her, kissing his dark head from time to time, and calling him by fond, caressing names. But for some minutes he did not seem to be able or to care to speak. She caught the word "Forgive!" once or twice between his gasps for breath; but she could distinguish nothing more.

"Darling," she said at last, "you will do yourself harm if this goes on. Be calm, and let us talk together a little time. Yes, I forgive you, if I must say so before anything else. There, there! Ah, my own love, how could I have left you so long? I was cruel and unkind!"

"No, Cynthia—no! I never thought that I should see you again," he said brokenly. "Don't leave me again—just yet."

"I will never leave you, if you like," she murmured softly.

"Never, Cynthia?"

"So long as we both do live. You know what I mean?"

"I daren't think. You don't mean that you will now—now become——"

"Your wife? Yes, if you will have me, Hubert. There is no barrier between us now.""Your father?" he murmured, looking at her with weary wistful eyes.

"My father sent me to you to-day. No, darling, I have not told him."

"I wish to Heaven you had, Cynthia!"

"What! I betray your confidence? No, I could not do that. But he had some notion already, Hubert. He told me that he suspected you—or your sister—some time ago; and he said to me to-day that he believed that you could have cleared him if you had liked."

"And what did you say? I wish that you had found it in your heart to tell him everything you knew."

"I could not do that. But I did not deny what he had said!" and then she told him all that she remembered of her father's words.

"His generosity crushes me to the earth!" said Hubert hoarsely. "I must tell him the whole story, and let him decide."

"He has decided."

"I cannot accept that decision. Since I have been lying here, Cynthia, and since you left me, I have seen it all as it appeared in your eyes. I have wondered at my own cowardice; and I hope—I trust that I have repented of it. It is time that I did, Cynthia, for I believe that I am a dying man."

"No, no!" she cried, clinging to him passionately. "You will get better now—you must get better—for my sake!"

"I wish I could, my darling—I wish I could!"

"Why have you such gloomy thoughts? You are depressed; you have wanted me. I shall soon make you well. I shall take you away from England to some warm bright country where you will have nothing to do but be happy and grow quite strong; and I will take care of you, and make up to you if I can for everything that you have lost."

"Yes, if one had not a conscience," said Hubert, with a faint sad smile, "one could be very happy, could one not? But you forget; you told me before that I must make amends. My darling, there is only one course open to me now."

"Hubert!" She knew by instinct what course he meant to take."We are going to have the whole truth told now," he went on softly. "And what a relief it will be! My God, I wonder that I could bear the burden so long! For I have suffered, Cynthia, though not as your father has. I am going now to tell the truth and bear the penalty; there is no other way."

"There cannot be much of a legal penalty," said Cynthia, trying to speak bravely. "It was a duel."

"Manslaughter, I suppose. It will depend a good deal on public feeling what the punishment will be; and public feeling will—very rightly—be against me. To let another man be condemned to death when I could have cleared him with a word! I think, Cynthia, that the mob will tear me to pieces if they can get hold of me!"

"They will not get hold of you. And if the public knows that it was all for your sister's sake——"

"I want to save Flossy, Cynthia. I think I can shield her still."

"I do not think that my father will shield her, Hubert. He knows."

"She must be shielded, if possible, dear, for the old General's sake. What a fool I was not to prevent that marriage! Well, it can't be helped now. But one thing I can do—I can exonerate your father, and confess that I shot Sydney Vane, without a word about my sister. That must be so, Cynthia. And your father must be silent."

"You will deprive yourself of your one excuse," said Cynthia quietly.

"I know. I cannot help it. I must stand forth to the world as a brutal murderer—as once your father did, my Cynthia. It is only right and just. They must sentence me as they please. But it will not be for long; I shall probably not come out of prison. But, if I do——"

Cynthia burst into tears.

"I can't bear it—I can't bear it!" she cried. "My father is right—he has got over the worst of it and outlived all that was hard. It would be terrible for you! How could you bear it—and how could I?"

"You could bear it if you thought it brought me happiness, could you not? I know I am selfish, Cynthia."

"No, no—you are anything but selfish! Oh, darling, live for me a little if you will not for yourself! Father asks you to do that as well as I. You will make us suffer if you suffer—and I cannot bear to part from you again! If you love me, Hubert, say nothing—for my father's sake and mine!"

It was a strange plea. And while Hubert listened and strove to calm her, there came a new and unwonted sound upon the stairs—the sound of a struggle, of trampling feet, of angry voices—of a woman's shriek and a man's stifled curse. Cynthia sprang to her feet.

"I hear my father's voice!" she said. "What can that mean?"

There had been another visitor that afternoon to Hubert's lodgings in Russell Square. Sabina Meldreth had presented herself at three o'clock, and had inquired for Mrs. Vane. She was told that Mrs. Vane had gone out, and was not likely to be back until six or half-past six o'clock.

"And then the General's coming with her," Jenkins had informed her, "and they're to dine together, because it is the first time that master has stayed up to dinner since he was taken ill."

"Oh, that'll do very well for me!" said Sabina sullenly. "I shall see the whole lot of them then, I suppose. I'll wait!" and she planted herself on one of the wooden chairs in the hall.

"Won't you come down-stairs?" said Jenkins. "My missus is there."

"No, I won't. I want to see Mrs. Vane; and perhaps she'll get away or refuse to see me if I am down-stairs. Sitting here, she can't escape so easy. I want Mrs. Vane."

Jenkins shrugged his shoulders.

"You seem to have got a grudge against her," he observed. "Didn't she pay you properly?"

"No, she didn't—not that it's any business of yours," Sabina remarked.

And, after that speech, Jenkins retired with dignity, feeling that it was not his part to converse any longer with a woman who chose to be so very impolite to him.

"She looks very queer!" he observed to his wife down-stairs. "She's in black, and her eyes are red as if she'd been crying, and her face as white as death. I think she looks as if she was going out of her mind."Whereupon Mrs. Jenkins herself went up-stairs to inspect the dangerous Sabina, but came down with the report that "she looked quiet enough." And so the afternoon went on—and still Mrs. Vane did not arrive. But Cynthia did.

When Sabina heard Miss West's voice speaking to the maid at the door, she gave a violent start. Then she rose and went cautiously into a little room which opened off the hall, and stood behind the door, so that Cynthia could not see her. As soon as Cynthia had gone up-stairs, Sabina dashed out into the hall again, and inspected the square through the pane of glass at the side of the hall door.

"It's him sure enough," she said to herself, "and his daughter's gone up-stairs! Well, they are bold as brass, the pair of them! They didn't ought to be allowed to escape, I'm sure; but I don't know what to do. I wish Mrs. Vane would come home, and the General too. They'd take care he was nabbed fast enough! And here they come!"

For at that moment Miss Vane's carriage drove up to the door, and out of it came its owner, as well as Mrs. Vane and the General. Sabina opened the door before the man had time to knock. And no sooner had Mrs. Vane entered than she was confronted by Sabina.

"What do you want here!" she asked.

Sabina had, as Flossy expected, come with demands that would not perhaps have been easy to satisfy; but all her plans were swept away by the appearance of Westwood in the square. Sabina did not attempt to stand on ceremony.

"For goodness' sake, ma'am, don't go up-stairs nor let them go just yet!" she said hurriedly. "There's the man Westwood in the square—and his daughter's just gone up to Mr. Lepel. I know him by sight perfectly. If you want him to be arrested, ma'am, you could get it done now easily."

"What's that?" said old Miss Vane, stepping back with her hand to her ear. "Why are you looking so pale, Flossy? What's all this about?"

Flossy looked at her husband and then looked at Sabina. She would have given anything to stop Sabina's tongue. For the General had never yet been made aware of one half of her man[oe]uvres, and she did not think that he even knew that Westwood was alive. The whole thing would probably excite him terribly; and there was a certain unsigned document in the General's bureau at home about which Flossy was particularly anxious. She had not wanted him to hear too much about Westwood's fate.

But there was no help for it now. He came forward with his sister, wanting to know what all the disturbance was about, and questioning first one and then another in turn. Sabina was not voluble; but, acting on a hint from Mrs. Vane, she did not at once say how she came to recognise the man. The General flew into a rage, as Flossy had expected him to do, and wanted to go out and lay hands himself on his brother's murderer. With great difficulty his wife and sister persuaded him to listen to reason. The footman was despatched for the police, and Jenkins was deputed to accost the man and bring him to the house. In this last piece of business Flossy took the lead. She had a notion that Jenkins was in Cynthia's confidence, and would not do what was required of him if he knew its purpose; and for that reason she coolly gave him a message from Hubert and Cynthia. Neither the General nor Miss Vane heard it, or perhaps they would not have allowed it to be sent; but it certainly effected all that they desired. Quietly and unsuspiciously Westwood came stepping across the square in Jenkins' wake; and just as quietly was taken up the stairs and shown into a little sitting-room, where it had been decreed that he should be delayed until the police could arrive.

But Westwood was not altogether at his ease. He was surprised to find that neither Cynthia nor Lepel were there to meet him—surprised to find himself left alone in a bare little room for five or ten minutes at the very least. At last he tried the door. It was locked. And then the truth flashed across his mind—he had been recognised—he had been entrapped. Perhaps even Cynthia and Hubert Lepel were in the plot. They had perhaps meant him to be caught and sent back to Portland, to die like a wild beast in a cage.

"There'll be murder done first!" said Westwood, looking round him for a weapon. "Let's see which is the strongest—Hubert Lepel or me. And now for the door! The window is too high."

He had found a poker, and he dealt one crashing blow at the lock of the door. It was not strong, and it yielded almost immediately. There was a shriek from some one on the stairs—the rush of two men from the hall. The General and a servant were instantly upon him, and, what was worse, Cynthia's arms were around his neck, her hand upon his arm.

"Father, don't strike! You will kill somebody!" she cried.

"And what do I care? Is it you that have given me up? Do you want me to die like a rat in a hole?" the man cried, trying to shake her off.

But the men were at his side—resistance was useless—the door at the foot of the stairs had been barred, and there was no way of escape.

"The police will be here directly—keep him till they come!" cried the General at the top of his voice. "I shall give him in charge! He is the murderer Westwood, the man who killed my bother, Sydney Vane, and afterwards escaped from Portland Prison, where he was undergoing a life sentence! I remember the man perfectly. Sabina Meldreth, you can identify him?"

"Oh, yes, I can identify him!" said Sabina curtly. "He's Miss West's father, anyway—and we all know who that was. We heard her call him 'father' just now her very self."

The servants tightened their grasp on the man's arm. But at that moment an interruption occurred. The drawing-room door was flung open, and Hubert Lepel, ghastly pale, and staggering a little as he moved, appeared upon the scene.

"This must go no further," he said. "Keep the police away, and let this man go. He is not Sydney Vane's murderer."

"Don't interfere, sir!" shouted the General from the stairs. "This is Westwood, the man who escaped from Portland—and back to Portland he shall go!"

"It is Westwood, I know," said Herbert, supporting himself against the door-post, and looking down calmly upon the excited group below; "but Westwood was not a murderer. General, you have been mistaken all this time. I wish to make a statement of the truth—it was I who killed Sydney Vane! Now do what you like!"