unpleasant."

"It is," says Sartoris, rising from his chair, and moving a few steps
nearer to him. "It is slowly murdering poor old John Annersley!"

"I am still hopelessly in the dark," says Dorian, shrugging his
shoulders. "What has suspense got to do with old Annersley?"

"Are you really ignorant of all that has occurred? Have you not heard
of Ruth's mysterious disappearance?"

"'Ruth's disappearance?' I have heard nothing. Why, where can she have
gone?"

"That is exactly what no one knows, except she herself, of course,
and--one other." Then, turning impulsively to face his nephew, "I
thought you could have told me where she is," he says, without giving
himself time to think of all the words may convey to Dorian.

"What do you mean?" demands Branscombe, throwing up his head, and
flushing darkly. His eyes flash, his nostrils dilate. "Am I to infer
from your last remark that you suspect _me_ of having something to do
with her disappearance?"

"I do," returns Sartoris, slowly, but with his eyes upon the ground.
"How can I do otherwise when I call to mind all the causes you have
given me to doubt you? Have you forgotten that day, now some months
ago, when I met you and that unhappy girl together on the road to the
village? I, at least, shall never forget the white misery of her face,
and the unmistakable confusion in her manner, as I greeted her. Even
then the truth began to dawn upon me."

"The truth?" says Branscombe, with a short and bitter laugh.

"At that time I was unwilling to harbor unkind doubts of you in my
breast," goes on Sartoris, unmoved, nay, rather confirmed in his
suspicions by Branscombe's sneer; "but then came the night of the Hunt
ball, when I met you, alone with her, in the most secluded part of the
grounds, and when you were unable to give me any reasonable
explanation of her presence there; and then, a little later, I find a
handkerchief (which you yourself acknowledge having given her) lying
on your library floor; about that, too, you were dumb: no excuse was
ready to your lips. By your own actions I judge you."

"Your suspicions make you unjust, my lord," says the young man,
haughtily. "They overrule your better judgment. Are such paltry
evidences as you have just put forward sufficient to condemn me, or
have you further proofs?"

"I have,--a still stronger one than any other I have mentioned. The
last place in which Ruth Annersley was seen in this neighborhood was
in Hurston Wood,