"Lal, that is not the truth."

"How?"

"'Tis not the truth. I am not to be put off with such an answer.
Yourself you said that you had warned him not to cross your path. What
path was in your mind?"

Lionel leaned his elbows on the table and took his head in his hands.
Weak from loss of blood, overwrought mentally as well, in a state of
revulsion and reaction also from the pursuit which had been the cause of
to-night's tragic affair, he had not strength to withhold the confidence
his brother asked. On the contrary, it seemed to him that in making
such a confidence, he would find a haven and refuge in Sir Oliver.

"'Twas that wanton at Malpas was the cause of all," he complained. And
Sir Oliver's eye flashed at the words. "I deemed her quite other; I was
a fool, a fool! I"--he choked, and a sob shook him--"I thought she
loved me. I would have married her, I would so, by God."

Sir Oliver swore softly under his breath.

"I believed her pure and good, and...." He checked. "After all, who am I
to say even now that she was not? 'Twas no fault of hers. 'Twas he,
that foul dog Godolphin, who perverted her. Until he came all was well
between us. And then...."

"I see," said Sir Oliver quietly. "I think you have something for which
to thank him, if he revealed to you the truth of that strumpet's nature.
I would have warned thee, lad. But...Perhaps I have been weak in that."