Early in the sweet June morning—sweet and fair although it brooded over London, the smokiest city in the world—Cynthia was again walking in Kensington Gardens. She had not gone far before she met her father, with whom she had made an appointment for that hour.

"Well, Cynthia, my girl?"

"I have come, you see, father."

"I hardly thought you'd get here so soon after your party-going last night," said her father. "You look pretty tired too. Well, my girl, I told you I'd been staying down at Beechfield."

"Yes; and I was terribly anxious about you all the time, father. It was such a daring thing to do! Suppose any one had suspected you?"

"Not much fear o' that!" said Westwood, a little scornfully. "Why, look at me! Am I like the man I was at Beechfield ten years ago? I was a sort of outcast then, having sunk from bad to worse through my despair when I lost your mother, Cynthia; but, now that I have a new coat on my back and money in my pocket, all through my luck in the States, not to speak of this white hair, which I shall keep to until I'm back in the West again, I'm a different man, and nobody ever thinks of suspecting me."

He was different, Cynthia noticed, in more than one respect—he was far less silent and morose than he used to be. Life in the West had brought out some unexpected reserves of decision and readiness of speech, and his success—his luck, as he sometimes called it—had cheered his spirits. He was defiant and he was often bitter still; but he was no longer downcast."They'd not have much chance if they did suspect me," he said, after a little pause; "if they thought that they'd got me again, they'd find their mistake. I'd put a bullet through my head afore ever I went back to Portland!"

"Oh, father, don't speak so!"

"Come, Cynthy, don't you pretend! You're a brave girl and a spirited one. Now wouldn't you yourself sooner die than be cooped up in a gaol, or set to work in a quarry with an armed warder watching you all day long—wouldn't you put an end to it, I ask you—being a brave girl and not a namby-pamby creature as hasn't got a will of her own, and don't know better than to stay where she's put—eh, Cynthia?"

"Don't speak quite so loud, father dear," said Cynthia—"there are people turning round to look at us. I don't know what I should do in those circumstances; perhaps, as you say, I should think it better to end it all." She looked aside as she spoke, for her dark eyes had filled with heavy tears. How she wished at that moment that she could "end it all" as easily as she said the words! "Sit down for a little time, will you, father?" she asked. "It is a warm morning, and I am rather tired."

She had another reason for wishing to sit down. She had observed that for some time a tall woman in black had been apparently regarding them with interest, following them at a little distance, slackening and quickening her pace in accordance with their own. The stranger was thickly veiled; and, when she saw that Cynthia and her father were walking towards a vacant seat, she turned in the same direction. There was nothing to prevent her from sitting down on the same bench, and either putting a stop to all private conversation or listening to what they had to say; but Cynthia was equal to the emergency. She turned her head and gave the woman a long look, half of inquiry, half of disdain, which seemed to overawe the intruder, who stood by the bench for a moment rather uncertainly. Then Cynthia touched her father's arm.

"Do you know this person?" she asked in a low voice, but one so clear that it must have reached the woman's ears.

"Know her?" said Westwood, starting and looking suspiciously at the black figure. "No, I don't know her, unless she's——She's very much like a person staying with my landlady just now—a Miss Meldreth. I wonder——Shall I speak to her, Cynthia?"

But the woman had already moved from her standing position by the bench, and was walking away as fast as she could conveniently go. She had fair hair and a fine figure, but her face could not be seen.

"It is very like," said Westwood, standing up and staring after her. "She's been very friendly with me since I came; and I've had tea with her and Mrs. Gunn more than once. Strange to relate; she comes from Beechfield too. She's the daughter of old Mrs. Meldreth, who used to keep the sweetie-shop; don't you remember her?"

"Then she was watching you—following you! Oh, father, do be careful!"

"What should she be watching me for?" said Westwood, but with rather a troubled look upon his face. "I've never had aught to do with her."

"Did you hear of her at all at Beechfield?"

"There was a bit of gossip about her and her mother; they said that Mrs. Vane at Beechfield Hall knew them and was kind to them. Some said that she paid them; but nobody knew what for."

"And she is lodging in the same house with you and following you about? Then I'll tell you what she is, father—she is a spy of the Vanes. She suspects you and wants to put you in prison again. Oh, father, do change your lodgings, or go straight back to America! You have been in England a month, and it is very dangerous. You have nothing to stay for—nothing; and, if you like"—her voice sank almost to a whisper—"I will go back with you."

"Will you, Cynthy? There's my own good girl!" said her father, an unwonted sense of pleasure beaming in his eyes. "You're one of the right sort, you are, and you sha'n't regret it. But, as to danger, I don't see it. There's nobody can recognise me, as you are well aware; and what else have I to fear?" Cynthia had noted before that he was almost childishly vain of his disguise. She herself was not disposed to rely upon it with half so blind a confidence, for she knew how easily the secrets of "making-up" can be read by an experienced eye. "Besides, Miss Meldreth was lodging at Mrs. Gunn's before ever I went there—so that's a pure coincidence. If she'd come after I went down to Beechfield, there might be something in it. But it's an accidental thing."

"It may be accidental, and yet a source of danger," said Cynthia anxiously. "I wish you would go back to the States at once, father. I am quite ready to go. There is nothing to keep me in England now."

"Why, have you broken off with that young man?" said Westwood sharply.

"Not altogether." The remembrance of the previous night's kiss under the umbrella made Cynthia's cheeks burn red as she replied. "But since I know what you have told me—that he is a relative of the Vanes of Beechfield—I have determined that it cannot go on. He and his family would hate me if they knew. I cannot forget the past; I cannot forget what they did and said; and I do not see how I can marry a man who unjustly believes that my father was his kinsman's murderer." The fire came back to her eyes, the firmness to her voice, as she spoke.

Westwood watched her admiringly.

"Well spoke, my little girl—well spoke! I didn't think you had it in you—I didn't indeed! Let him go his way, and let us go ourn. I didn't tell you all that I might ha' done when I came back from Beechfield the other day, because I didn't rightly know whether you was with me or against me."

"With you—always with you, dear father!"

"And I was a little doubtful, so to speak, seeing as how you had taken up, although by accident, with a fellow belonging to the camp of my enemies. But now I'll tell you a little more. Has Mr. Lepel ever told you that he had a sister?"

"No."

"Well, he has; and, what's more, she's married to the old General—you remember him at Beechfield?"

"Yes."

"Maybe you remember her too—a very fair lady, as used to walk out with the little girl—Mr. Sydney Vane's little girl?"

Cynthia was silent for a moment.

"Yes," she said, at length—"I think I remember her."

"You've seen the child too?"

"Yes"—Cynthia's eyes softened; "I am sure I remember her.""I'll tell you about her presently. I've got a notion in my head about these Lepels. Miss Lepel, as was, and Mr. Sydney Vane was in love with one another and about to run away from England when he was killed. I know that for a fact, so you needn't look so scared. They was on the point of an elopement when he died—I knew that all along; but, stupid-like, I never thought of putting two and two together and connecting it with his death. It just seemed a pity to throw shame and blame on the dead, seeing as how there was his wife and child to bear all the disgrace; and so I held my tongue."

"But how did you know, father?"

"By using my eyes and my ears," said Westwood briefly—"that's how I knew. They used to meet in that little plantation often enough. I've lain low in a dry ditch more than once when they were close by and heard their goings-on. They were going off next day, when Mr. Vane met with his deserts. And what I say is that somebody related to Miss Lepel found out the truth and shot him like a dog."

"Why did you not think of all this at the right time? Oh, father, it is too late now!"

"I'm not so sure of that. And, as for the gun—well, that often puzzled me; for I hadn't fired it myself that afternoon, Cynthy, and yet it had been fired—and that's what made part of the evidence against me. I'd been out that afternoon, and, coming home, who should I see in the distance but two or three gentlemen strolling along the road—Mr. Vane and the General and one or two strangers? Quick as thought, I laid my gun down and walked on as careless as you please. They met me—you know, that was a bit of the General's evidence, I looked back when I'd passed them, and I saw Mr. Sydney Vane separate himself from the other gentlemen and walk into the plantation. I did not like to go back just then; and so I waited. There was two or three ways of getting into the fir plantation, so I don't know who came into it across the fields, as anybody might have done either from the village or from the Hall. But presently I heard the report of a gun—two reports, as far as I remember; and then I saw Miss Lepel flying along the road—and I knew that she'd been in the plantation, any way. So, after watching a little while longer, I went back to the wood; and I found my gun pretty near where I had left it—only it had been moved and fired. So I took it up and walked away home."

"Without stopping to see whether any one was hurt?"

"Yes, my girl—and that was my mistake. If I'd gone on and found Mr. Vane and given the alarm and all that, I dare say I should have got off. But that was my misfortune, and also my hatred to Mr. Vane and his wicked ways. I says to myself, 'This is no business of yours. Let them settle it between themselves. I'll not interfere.' So I sort of hardened my heart and went on my way."

"Father, perhaps you might have saved a life!"

"No," said Westwood calmly, "I couldn't have done that. He was shot clean through the heart. And I'm not sure that I would if I could. He was a bad man, and deserved his punishment. The only thing I can't understand is why the man as did it hadn't the pluck to say what he had done, instead of leaving a poor common man like me to bear the blame."

"Did you not tell all this to the jury and the counsel?"

"Yes, my dear, I did—every word. But who was there to believe me? It didn't sound likely, you know. And who else was there, as the lawyers said, that had reason to hate Mr. Vane? Why, if they'd known all I knew, they would have seen that every honest man would have hated him! But, by never telling what I knew previous about Miss Lepel, I didn't put 'em on the right track, you see. I own that now."

"Father, I see to whom your suspicions point—you said as much to me before. But I feel sure that Mr. Hubert Lepel is incapable of such a deed—not only of the murder—for which one could forgive him—but of letting another bear the blame."

"Well, perhaps so, Cynthy. I don't think you would ha' given your heart to an out-an-out scoundrel—I don't indeed. And Mr. Lepel has a good sort o' face. I've seen him, and I like him. He looks as if he'd had a good bit o' trouble somehow; and I daresay it's likely, with a sister like that on his hands. It's my belief, Cynthia, not that Mr. Lepel, but his sister, Miss Florence Lepel, as she was then, did the deed and put the blame on me. And I'm inclined to think as how Mr. Lepel knows it and wouldn't tell."

"A woman! Could a woman manage a heavy gun like that?""If she was desperate, she could, my dear. It's wonderful what strength a woman will have when she's in a temper. And maybe Mr. Vane failed her at the last moment—wouldn't go with her away from England, or something o' that kind—and she thought she would be revenged on him."

The theory did credit to Reuben Westwood's imagination; but it was a mistaken one. At present, however, it seemed sufficiently credible to give Cynthia much cause for reflection. She did not speak. Westwood gave his knee a sudden stroke with one hand, expressive of growing amazement, as he also meditated on the matter.

"And then for her to go and marry the old man—Sydney Vane's brother! It beats all that I ever heard of! She must have got nerves of steel and muscles of iron; she must be the boldest, hardest liar that ever trod this earth. If I thought that all women was like her, Cynthia, I would go to the devil at once! But I've known two good ones in my time, I reckon—your mother and you—and that should p'r'aps be enough for any man. Yes, she's married and got a child—a little lad that'll have the estate and prevent the girl from coming to her own—at least, what would have been her own if there had been no boy."

"You mean Miss Enid Vane?" said Cynthia, again with a curious softening of the eyes.

"Yes, some outlandish name of that sort—'Enid,' is it? Well, you know better than I. I'm glad you're breaking it off with that man Lepel, Cynthia, for more reasons than one."

Cynthia hardly noticed the significance of his tone or the conjunction of the two names in his remarks. She had something else in her mind which she was anxious to have said.

"Father, I am to see Mr. Lepel this afternoon."

"Yes, my girl?"

"And I want to say good-bye to him for ever."

Westwood nodded; he was well pleased with her decision.

"And then I will go to America with you whenever you please. But one thing I want you to allow me to do."

"Well, Cynthy?"

"I must tell Mr. Lepel who I am. I will not of course let him think that I know anything of you now. He shall not know that you are alive. But I must do as I please about telling him my own name."

"Very well, Cynthia," said her father; "do as you like in that matter. I can trust you with a good deal, and I trust you so far; but don't let out that you know anything about me now—that I'm alive, and that you have seen me, or anything of that sort."

"No, father."

"I see what you're after," said he, after a pause. "You think he'll give you up more ready when he knows that you are my daughter—isn't that it? You may say so open-like; it doesn't hurt me, you know. Of course I can understand what he will feel. And what's always been hardest to me was the feelin' that I had injured you so much, my dear—you, the only thing left to me in the world to love."

"You could not help it, father dear."

"Well, I don't know. I might have done many things different—I see that now. But there's one thing to be said—if you feel inclined to break off with Mr. Lepel without telling him your name, I think it would be easy enough to do it."

"How? What do you mean?"

"You think he's fond of you—don't you, my dear?"

"I thought so, father."

"He's tried to make you believe so for his own ends, no doubt. But he means to marry the other girl, my dear—they told me so at Beechfield. They say he worships the very ground she treads upon; and she the same with him. Being fond of you was only a blind to lead you to your destruction, I'm afraid, my poor pretty dear!"

Cynthia shrank a little as she heard. Could this be true?

"The girl lives down there then, does she?" she asked, in a strange hard voice not like her own.

"Yes, my dear. He would not be able to break off there without a tremendous to-do, I'll warrant you; for the girl is the General's niece, the daughter of Mr. Sydney Vane—the Miss Enid you spoke about just now."

As he got no answer, he turned to look at her, and found that she was deadly white; but, when she noticed that he was looking at her, she smiled and passed her hand reassuringly within his arm."You make my task all the easier for me, father," she said; "I shall know what to do now. And I think that it is about time for me to go home."