He smiled. "I must begin a good way back, as far as with my grandfather's youth," he said. "I am afraid it was a wild one. He was handsome, and gay, and rich, well-born, too, though not of the Sunderland Archdales, as I had always supposed. He must have said this when he took his own name again after his year of hiding as a criminal from justice. But I don't think that he ever meant crime; it was an irregular duel. I think his adversary's first shot hit him in the shoulder, and at the second, for they were to fire twice, he rushed up to his opponent in a fury of pain, perhaps, and fired at close range. The man fell dead. I don't know how they tell the story in Portsmouth, but it's not worse than that, I suppose."
"It's something like that, I think," she said.
"Pleasant to go back where we've always been so,—well, so esteemed; I mean that the name has been. But I may not go back," he added.
She made no answer for a moment; then she said, "Captain Edmonson is like that."
"But worse," he answered.
"Yes, worse."
"Is his wound doing well?" questioned Archdale.
"It is healing, but very slowly."
"Next time he will not fail of his mark," said the young man.
"Perhaps the next time his mark will be the enemy," she answered. "He has had time to think." Her companion gave an eager glance. "Is she teaching him something?" he wondered. "What?" How could she teach him not to care for her? His pulses quickened. He altered his position a little, which brought him by so much nearer. "But tell me about the portrait," said Elizabeth.