The baronet had a cheery voice, rich and mellow, and his laugh was
ringing and musical. His courtesy, his pleasant smile, his genial air,
and his hearty voice and laugh, all filled Miss Plympton with sincere
delight, and she felt that this man could do nothing else than take up
Edith's cause with the utmost ardor.

After a few apologies for troubling him, which Sir Lionel turned aside
by protesting that apologies were only due from himself to her, Miss
Plympton began to state the object of her visit.

"In the first place, Sir Lionel," said she, "I take it for granted that
you have heard of the death of Frederick Dalton, Esquire, in Van
Diemen's Land."

The smile on the baronet's face died out at this, and his eyes fixed
themselves upon Miss Plympton's face with quick and eager curiosity.
Then he turned his face aside. A table stood on his right, with some
wine and glasses within reach.

"Excuse me," said he; "I beg ten thousand pardons; but _won't_ you
take a glass of wine? No!" he continued, as Miss Plympton politely
declined; "really I think you had better." And then, pouring out a
glass, he sipped it, and looked at her once more. "Poor Dalton!" said
he, with a sigh. "Yes, of course, I saw it in the papers. A most
melancholy affair. Poor Dalton! Let me inform you, madam, that he was
more sinned against than sinning." Sir Lionel sighed.

"Oh, Sir Lionel," exclaimed Miss Plympton, earnestly, "how it rejoices
my heart to hear you say that! For my part, I never, never had one
single doubt of his perfect innocence."