at eight o'clock on the evening of her departure,
and--you were with her!"

"_I_ was?"

"The man who saw you will swear to this."

"He must be rather a clever fellow. I congratulate you on your 'man.'"

"Do you deny it?" There is something that is almost hope in his tone.
"If not there last Tuesday, at that hour, where were you?"

"Well, really, it would take me all my time to remember. Probably
dining: got to my fish by that time, no doubt. Later on I was at Lady
Chetwoode's crush; but that"--with a sarcastic laugh--"is a very safe
thing to say, is it not? One can hardly prove the presence of any one
at a gathering together of the clans, such as there was at her 'at
home.' I _wouldn't_ believe I was there, if I were you."

He laughs again. Sartoris flushes hotly all over his lean earnest
face.

"It is needless lying," he says, slowly. "The very coat you wore--a
light overcoat,--probably" (pointing to it) "the one you are now
wearing--was accurately described." Dorian starts visibly. "Do you
still hope to brave it out?"

"A coat like this, do you say?" asks Branscombe, with a nervous
attempt at unconcern, laying his hand upon his sleeve.

"A light overcoat. Such was the description. But" (with a longing that
is terribly pathetic) "many overcoats are alike. And--and I dare say
you have not worn that one for months."

"Yes, I have. I wear it incessantly: I have taken rather a fancy to
it," replies Branscombe, in an uncompromising tone. "My persistent
admiration for it has driven my tailor to despair. I very seldom
(except, perhaps, at midnight revels or afternoon bores) appear in
public without it."

"Then you deny nothing?"

"Nothing!"--contemptuously, making a movement as though to depart.
"Why should I? If, after all these years that you have known me, you
can imagine me capable of evil such as you describe so graphically, it
would give me no pleasure to vindicate myself in your eyes. Think of
me as you will: I shall take no steps to justify myself."

"You dare not!" says Sartoris, in a stifled tone, confronting him
fully for the first time.

"That is just as you please to think," says Branscombe, turning upon
him with flashing eyes. He frowns heavily, and, with a little gesture
common to him, raises his hand and pushes the end of his fair
moustache between his teeth. Then, with a sudden effort, he controls
himself, and goes on more quietly: "I shall always feel regret in that
you found it so easy a