"Darling! But, Bernard, I have a confession to make. I really thought for a moment that you were guilty."
"Alice, how could you?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I was mad to doubt you, dearest, but I did. I thought you might have lost your temper with——"
"Ah!" groaned Gore, "my terrible temper. But when did you come to think me innocent, Alice?"
"Almost immediately. My aunt laughed at the idea that you had killed Sir Simon. She always stood up for you, and scolded me."
"I think you deserved it," said Gore, playfully. "However, I forgive you. The evidence against me is so strong that I don't wonder you believed I was——"
"No, Bernard, no. You loved me, and in the face of everything I should never have credited you with the commission of this crime. But you forgive me, don't you, dear?" she added, nestling to his heart.
"Of course I do," replied Gore, and sealed his forgiveness with a kiss. "So long as you believe me to be innocent now."
"I do—I do. I wonder that I could have doubted you. Lord Conniston never doubted you, nor did Mr. Durham, nor my aunt. It was only I who—oh dear me! How wicked of me."
"Alice"—he kissed away her tears—"say no more. The circumstances were enough to shake your faith in me, especially when you knew I had such a bad temper. And I have it still," sighed Gore, sadly; "even now in spite of all my trouble I am impatient."