leave Bodmin early in the day—without giving any notice of your departure—and you return late in the evening. A most mysterious catastrophe occurs in the train which brings you home—a death so strange, so horrible, that it casts a cloud over all the passengers travelling by that train—leaves a stigma upon all, as it were, until the guilt of that deed can be brought home to one. Surely, under such circumstances, the utmost frankness is desirable. Every traveller in that train should be ready to answer any question which those who are charged with the elucidation of this mystery may ask."
"I have answered your questions as to what occurred to me in the train, and at the station; but I decline to be catechised about my business in Plymouth," answered Bothwell doggedly.
"That will do," said Distin; and Bothwell went to his seat next Julian Wyllard, whose handsome presence appeared in the front rank of spectators, amongst those of the élite who were favoured with chairs, while the commonalty stood in a mob at the back of the room.
The audience had been breathless during this examination of Bothwell Grahame. The young man's sunburnt face was clouded with anger, his dark strongly-marked brows were scowling over those gray-blue eyes which once had such a pleasant expression.
"I can't think what has come to Grahame," muttered a sporting squire to his next neighbour. "He used to be such a pleasant fellow, but to-day he looks like a murderer."
"You don't think he threw the girl out of the train, do you?" asked the other.
"God forbid! But by that London lawyer's questions one would think he suspected Grahame of having had a hand in the business."
The jury gave their verdict presently, "Death from misadventure."
"Tell Dora not to expect me at dinner," said Bothwell to Julian Wyllard, before they left the inn; "I shall dine in Bodmin."
"Have you any engagement?"
"No, but I can easily make one. I am not going to break bread with your lawyer friend. So long as he is at Penmorval I shall be missing."
"My dear Bothwell, you have no right to be angry at a simple question which you might have so easily answered," remonstrated Wyllard gravely.
"It was a question which I did not choose to answer, and which he had no right to ask. It was an outrage to ask such a question—to press it as he did. Fifty years ago he might have been shot for a lesser insult. By Jove, I never felt more sorry
