Harold remained silent,
amazed at the change. Leonard went on, quite awake and coherent:

'By George! I must have been pretty well cut. I don't remember a thing
after coming down the stairs of the club and you and the hall-porter
helping me up here. I say, old chap, you have strapped me up all safe
and tight. It was good of you to take charge of me. I hope I haven't
been a beastly nuisance!' Harold answered grimly:

'It wasn't exactly what I should have called it!' Then, after looking
keenly at his companion, he said: 'Are you quite awake and sober now?' 'Quite.' The answer came defiantly; there was something in his
questioner's tone which was militant and aggressive. Before speaking
further Harold pulled up the horse. They were now crossing bare
moorland, where anything within a mile could have easily been seen. They
were quite alone, and would be undisturbed. Then he turned to his
companion. 'You talked a good deal in your drunken sleep--if sleep it was. You
appeared to be awake!' Leonard answered:

'I don't remember anything of it. What did I say?' 'I am going to tell you. You said something so strange and so wrong that
you must answer for it. But first I must know its truth.' 'Must! You are pretty dictatorial,' said Leonard angrily. 'Must answer
for it! What do you mean?' 'Were you on Caester Hill to-day?' 'What's that to you?' There was no mistaking the defiant, quarrelsome
intent. 'Answer me! were you?' Harold's voice was strong and calm. 'What if I was? It is none of your affair. Did I say anything in what
you have politely called my drunken sleep?' 'You did.' 'What did I say?' 'I shall tell you in time. But I must know the truth as I proceed. There
is some one else concerned in this, and I must know as I go on. You can
easily judge by what I say if I am right.' 'Then ask away and be damned to you!' Harold's calm voice seemed to
quell the other's turbulence as he went on:

'Were you on Caester Hill this morning?' 'I was.' 'Did you meet Miss --- a lady there?' 'What . . . I did!' 'Was it by appointment?' Some sort of idea or half-recollection seemed
to come to Leonard; he fumbled half consciously in his breast-pocket. Then he broke out angrily:

'You have taken my letter!' 'I know the answer to that question,' said Harold slowly. 'You showed me
the letter yourself, and insisted on my reading it.' Leonard's heart
began to quail. He seemed to have an instinctive dread of what was
coming. Harold went on calmly and remorselessly:

'Did a proposal of marriage pass between you?' 'Yes!' The answer was defiantly given; Leonard began to feel that his
back was against the wall. 'Who made it?' The answer was a sudden attempt at a blow, but Harold
struck down his hand in time and held it. Leonard, though a fairly
strong man, was powerless in that iron grasp. 'You must answer! It is necessary that I know the truth.' 'Why must you? What have you to do with it? You are not my keeper! Nor
Stephen's; though I dare say you would like to be!' The insult cooled
Harold's rising passion, even whilst it wrung his heart. 'I have to do with it because I choose. You may find the answer if you
wish in your last insult! Now, clearly understand me, Leonard Everard. You know me of old; and you know that what I say I shall do. One way or
another, your life or mine may hang on your answers to me--if necessary!' Leonard felt himself pulled up. He knew well the strength and purpose of
the man. With a light laugh, which he felt to be, as it was, hollow, he
answered:

'Well, schoolmaster, as you are asking questions, I suppose I may as well
answer them. Go on! Next!' Harold went on in the same calm, cold
voice:

'Who made the proposal of marriage?' 'She did.' 'Did . . . Was it made at once and directly, or after some preliminary
suggestion?' 'After a bit. I didn't quite understand at first what she was driving
at.' There was a long pause. With an effort Harold went on:

'Did you accept?' Leonard hesitated. With a really wicked scowl he eyed
his big, powerfully-built companion, who still had his hand as in a vice. Then seeing no resource, he answered:

'I did not! That does not mean that I won't, though!' he added
defiantly. To his surprise Harold suddenly released his hand. There was
a grimness in his tone as he said:

'That will do! I know now that you have spoken the truth, sober as well
as drunk. You need say no more. I know the rest. Most men--even brutes
like you, if there are any--would have been ashamed even to think the
things you said, said openly to me, you hound. You vile, traitorous,
mean-souled hound!' 'What did I say?' 'I know what you said; and I shall not forget it.' He went on, his voice
deepening into a stern judicial utterance, as though he were pronouncing
a sentence of death:

'Leonard Everard, you have treated vilely a lady whom I love and honour
more than I love my own soul. You have insulted her to her face and
behind her back. You have made such disloyal reference to her and to her
mad act in so trusting you, and have so shown your intention of causing,
intentionally or unintentionally, woe to her, that I tell you here and
now that you hold henceforth your life in your hand. If you ever mention
to a living soul what you have told me twice to-night, even though you
should be then her husband; if you should cause her harm though she
should then be your wife; if you should cause her dishonour in public or
in private, I shall kill you. So help me God!' Not a word more did he say; but, taking up the reins, drove on in silence
till they arrived at the gate of Brindehow, where he signed to him to
alight. He drove off in silence. When he arrived at his own house he sent the servant to bed, and then
went to his study, where he locked himself in. Then, and then only, did
he permit his thoughts to have full range. For the first time since the
blow had fallen he looked straight in the face the change in his own
life. He had loved Stephen so long and so honestly that it seemed to him
now as if that love had been the very foundation of his life. He could
not remember a time when he had not loved her; away back to the time when
he, a big boy, took her, a little girl, under his care, and devoted
himself to her. He had grown into the belief that so strong and so
consistent an affection, though he had never spoken it or even hinted at
it or inferred it, had become a part of her life as well as of his own. And this was the end of that dreaming! Not only did she not care for
him, but found herself with a heart so empty that she needs must propose
marriage to another man! There was surely something, more than at
present he knew of or could understand, behind such an act done by her. Why should she ask Everard to marry her? Why should she ask any man? Women didn't do such things! . . . Here he paused. 'Women didn't do such
things.' All at once there came back to him fragments of discussions--in
which Stephen had had a part, in which matters of convention had been
dealt with.