men in the low invalid's chair before him. He
saw the breath and desire of evil things struggling with some wonderful
dream vainly seeking to realize itself.

"Some of us," the lawyer said timidly, "build our ideals too high up in
the clouds, so that to reach them is very difficult. Nevertheless, the
effort counts."

Wingrave laughed mockingly.

"It is not like that with me," he declared. "My plans were made down in
hell."

"God bless my soul!" the lawyer murmured. "But you are not serious, Sir
Wingrave?"

"Ay! I'm serious enough," Wingrave answered. "Do you suppose a man, with
the best pages of his life rooted out, is likely to look out upon his
fellows from the point of view of a philanthropist? Do you suppose that
the man, into whose soul the irons of bitterness have gnawed and eaten
their way, is likely to come out with a smirk and look around him for
the opportunity of doing good? Rubbish! My aim is to encourage suffering
wherever I see it, to create it where I can, to make sinners and thieves
of honest people."

"God bless my soul!" the lawyer gasped again. "I don't think you can
be--as bad as you think you are. What about Juliet Lundy?"

Fire flashed in Wingrave's eyes. Again, at the mention of her name, he
seemed almost to lose control of himself. It was several moments before
he spoke. He looked Mr. Pengarth in the face, and his tone was unusually
deliberate.

"Gifts," he said, "are not always given in friendship. Life may easily
become a more complicated affair for that child with the Tredowen
estates hanging round her neck. And anyhow, I disappoint my next of
kin."

Morrison, smooth-footed and silent, appeared upon the lawn. He addressed
Wingrave.

"A lady has arrived in a cab from Truro, sir," he announced. "She wishes
to see you as soon as convenient."

A sudden light flashed across Wingrave's face, dying out again almost
immediately.

"Who is she, Morrison?" he asked.

The man glanced at Mr. Pengarth.

"She did not give her name, sir."

Mr. Pengarth and Wingrave both rose. The former at once made his adieux
and took a short cut to the stables. Wingrave, who leaned heavily upon
his stick, clutched Morrison by the arm.

"Who is it, Morrison?" he demanded.

"It is Lady Ruth Barrington, sir," the man answered.

"Alone?"

"Quite alone, sir."

FOR PITY'S SAKE

The library at Tredowen was a room of irregular shape, full of angles
and recesses lined with bookcases. It was in on