"Nor have I," said Gwynne, dryly; but he turned pale. "I suppose you haven't had the least suspicion what he came to tell me that night?"
"I thought to say good-bye without letting you know—it isn't possible that he told you he intended to kill himself?"
"He told me a good deal more. He had shot Brathland. Murdered him, in plain English. You may fancy the night I had with him."
Isabel stared up at him, the radiance gone from her face.
"And you have been carrying that about in addition to everything else?"
"It was brutal to tell you this to-night! I can't imagine why I did, particularly as I have never told even my mother—who, like everybody else not necessarily in the secret, thinks that Zeal killed himself in despair over his failing health. But—yes, I remember that dress now—I rarely notice the details of women's clothes—but I remember admiring those blue lilies on that airy white stuff—I suppose you suddenly brought the whole thing back as vividly as if we were at Capheaton instead of out here on the edge of creation. You must forgive me and forget it."
"Yes I will! I'll forget everything for a week." She wheeled about and rubbed her cheeks. Gwynne stooped suddenly and kissed the little black mole on her shoulder.
"This is all I ask in return for the baubles," he murmured; and then as he met a blazing eye: "Could I do less than restore your lovely color? But I must fly and get into my togs."