Cynthia's face turned crimson immediately. Her father's words made her
feel very guilty. She loved him--true; but she loved Hubert better, and
she had not known it until that moment. She knew it thoroughly now.

"Well," said Westwood, in a peculiarly dogged tone, "I see what's up.
Who is he?"

"He is a very clever man, father," said Cynthia, keeping her hot face
away from him as much as possible--"a literary man; he writes plays and
novels and poetry. He is thought a great deal of in London."

"As poor as a rat, and wants you to keep him. Is that it?"

"Oh, no, indeed, father! He makes a great deal of money. It was he who
sent me to Italy to study music; he paid for me to live where I do, with
Madame della Scala."

They were in a quiet part of the Gardens, and her father suddenly laid
an iron grip upon her wrist.

"Look at me," he burst out--"tell me the truth! You--you ain't--you
ain't bound to him in any way?" He dare not, after all, put his sudden
suspicion into plainer words. "It's all fair and square? He's asked you
to be his wife, and not----"

Cynthia wrenched away her arm.

"I did not think that my own father would insult me!" she said, in a
voice which, though low, vibrated with anger. "I am quite well able to
take care of my own honor and dignity; and Mr. Lepel would never dream
of assailing either."

Then she broke down a little, and a few tears made their way over the
scarlet of her cheeks; but of these signs of distress her father took no
notice. He stood still in the middle of the path down which they had
been walking, and repeated the name incredulously.

"'Lepel'! 'Lepel'! Is that your sweetheart's name?"

"'Hubert Lepel.' It is a well-known name," said Cynthia, with head
erect.

"Hubert Lepel! Not the man at Beechfield, the cousin of those Vanes?" He
spoke in a whisper, with his eyes fixed on his daughter's face.

Cynthia turned very pale.

"I do not know. Oh, it can't be the same," she said.

"It's not likely that there are two men of the same name. He was a
cousin of the man who was killed, I tell you; and he was the
brother--the brother----" Suddenly Westwood stopped short; his eyes fell
to the ground, his breathing quickened; he thrust his hands into his
pockets and frowned heavily as he reflected. "Have I got a clue?" he
said, more to himself than to Cynthia. "He's the brother of that
woman--the woman that Sydney Vane used to meet in the wood so often, and
thought that nobody