"By mine."
"I thought so."
"Dick, I have been compelled to do it. When you shall know all, you will acknowledge that I could not do otherwise. And yet, in spite of this, I feel that to her I have been but a false-hearted knave, as you aptly style me: a despicable, dishonourable man. My father fell into dishonour--or rather had it forced upon him by another--and he could not survive it; he shot himself. Did you know it, Dick?"
"Shot himself!" repeated Richard, in his surprise. "No, I never knew that. I thought he died of sunstroke."
"My father shot himself," cried Arthur. "He could not live dishonoured. Dick, old fellow, there are moments when I feel tempted to do as he did."
"What--because you have parted from Ellen?"
"No. That's bitter enough to bear; but I can battle with it. It is the other thing, the dishonour. That is always present with me, always haunting me night and day; I know not how to live under it."
"I do not understand at all," said Richard. "You are master of your own actions."
"In this case I have not been: my line of conduct was forced upon me. I cannot explain. Don't judge me too harshly, my friend. I am bad enough, Heaven knows, but not quite as bad, perhaps, as you have been thinking me."
And Arthur Bohun turned and went limping away, leaving Richard lost in wonder.