“Agnes!  Agnes!  I can’t reduce you to poverty by marrying you.  It would not be honorable of me.”

“And would it be honorable on my part for me to keep the money of a man I despise because his will insults me?” she retorted.

“We argued all this before.”

“Yes, we did, and concluded to wait until we saw how the estates could be freed before we came to any conclusion.”

“And do you see now how the estates can be freed without using Pine’s money, Agnes?” asked Lambert anxiously.

“No.  Things are ever so much worse than I thought.  Garvington can hold out for another year, but at the end of twelve months the estates will be sold up by the person whose name is in the sealed envelope, and he will be reduced to some hundreds a year.  The Lamberts!” she waved her arm dramatically, “are ruined, my dear; entirely ruined!”

“And for the simple reason that you wish us to place love before duty.”

Agnes leaned forward and took his hand firmly.  “Noel, you love me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Do you love the family name better?”

“In one way I wish to save it, in another I am willing to let it go hang.”

“Yes.  Those were my views until three or four days ago.”

“And what caused you to change your mind, dear?”

“A visit which Clara Greeby paid me.”

“Oh.”  Lambert sat up very straight.  “She hasn’t been making mischief, has she?”

“Not at all.  On the contrary, she has done both of us a great service.”

Lambert nodded thankfully.  He felt doubtful as to whether Miss Greeby really had meant to renounce her absurd passion for himself, and it was a relief to find that she had been acting honestly.  “Has she then learned who killed Pine?” he asked cautiously.

Lady Agnes suddenly rose and began to pace the room, twisting her gloves and trying to control herself.  Usually she was so composed that Lambert wondered at this restlessness.  He wondered still more when she burst into violent tears, and therefore hastened to draw her back to the chair.  When she was seated he knelt beside her and passed his arm round her neck, as distressed as she was.  It was so unlike Agnes to break down in this way, and more unlike her to sob brokenly.  “Oh, I’m afraid—­I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what, darling?”

“I’m afraid to learn who killed my husband.  He might have done so, and yet he only fired the first shot—­”

“Agnes,” Lambert rose up suddenly, “are you talking of Garvington?”

“Yes.”  She leaned back and dried her tears.  “In spite of what he says, I am afraid he may be guilty.”

Lambert’s heart seemed to stand still.  “You talk rubbish!” he cried angrily.

“I wish it was.  Oh, how I wish it was rubbish!  But I can’t be sure.  Of course, he may have meant what he says—­”

“What does he say?  Tell me everything.  Oh, heavens!” Lambert clutched his smooth hair.  “What does it all mean?”