counselor and invaluable
friend from whose good graces he seemed to have fallen entirely. Not once
had opportunity been afforded in which to speak and open his heart to
him. As for writing, that seemed impossible. Billy could handle almost
any implement better than a pen. But even in the few minutes left him in
which to think he knew that now at least he must "face the music," like
the man his father would have him be, even though it took more nerve than
did that perilous dash on the Tagal works that Sunday morning. Billy
would rather do that twice over than have to face Armstrong's stern,
searching eyes, and hear again the cold, almost contemptuous tone in
which the colonel said to him the day the doctor led his vanquished and
hysterical charmer from the room: "Don't try to thank, man, try to
_think_ what you risk--what you deserve to lose--for putting yourself in
the power of such a woman."

From that day until this, here on the banks of the swift-running Pasig,
they had not met at all; and it seemed to Gray as though Armstrong had
aged a year. There was a lump in his throat as he went straight up to the
colonel, his blue eyes never flinching, though they seemed to fill, and
bravely spoke. "Colonel Armstrong, I have an explanation that I owe to
you. Will you give me a few minutes on the gallery?"

"Certainly, Gray," was the calm reply; and the youngster led the way.

It was a broken story. It told of his desperation and misery through
Canker's persecution, of his severe illness, then of the utter weakness
and prostration; then _her_ coming, and with her comfort, peace,
reassurance, gradual return to health, and with that, gradual surrender
to his nurse's fascinations. Then her demand upon him, her plea, her
final insistence that he should prove his gratitude and devotion by
getting for her those dangerous letters, and his weakness in letting her
believe he could and would do so. That was the situation when they went
on to Manila; and Armstrong knew the rest--knew that but for his timely
aid she might have triumphed over his repentance; but Armstrong had come,
had vanquished her and poor Latrobe's last wishes were observed. The
fateful packet containing the three letters that were most important was
placed in his uncle's trembling hand.

"But how was it--what was it that so utterly crushed her?" asked Billy,
when the colonel had once more extended his hand.

"The evidences of her own forgery, her own guilt," said