at the money was found, had been mislaid; I'll think that out. It's
nobody's business just now; I run the bank and you take orders from me.
Go back to your desk and stay there. I've got to tell Mortimer and Miss
Porter that you made this mistake, and Lane, too, I suppose, but nobody
else will ever know of it. I was going to make you sign a confession,
but it's not needed. You may go now."

Cass rose, his thin legs seeming hopelessly inadequate to the task of
carrying his body, and said, "Will you take my hand, sir?"

"Of course I will. Just do right from this on, and forget-no, better not
forget; remember that there is no crime like weakness; all crime comes
from weakness. Be strong, and listen to no more voices. But I needn't
tell you. I know from this out I can trust you further than a man who
has never been tried."

At the door Cass turned and looked back at the man who had reached down
into the abyss, pulled him up, and stood him on his feet. The man was
sitting quite still, his back to the light, his head drooped, and Cass
could not see his face. He strove futilely for some adequate expression
of gratitude, but his senses were numb from the shock of what he had
escaped; he simply nodded twice toward the sitting figure, turned, and
passed out into the street, where the sunlight baptized him with warmth
as though he had been born again.

"Poor, weak devil!" muttered Crane; then he shivered. Had the imbecile's
talk of voices got on to his nerves? Surely a voice had whispered
derisively in his ear, "Which one is the poor, weak devil?" And
in answer within his soul Crane knew that the margin was indeed of
infinitesimal narrowness. Cass, hastened in his temptation, yielding
to the first insane impulse, not knowing that the damnation of a friend
hung on his act, had fallen. He, Crane, in full knowledge that two
innocent lives might be wrecked by his doing, had been kept to the
right only after hours of struggle, and by the supporting influence of
a supreme love. To have gained Allis Porter by the strategy of a villain
could not be the method of holy passion. To sacrifice his desire and
give her back her lover was love, love worthy of the girl.

For an hour he waited; then there was turmoil on the stairway;
horses were surely coming up. At the door a thick voice explained the
diversion. The hostler had again arrived, with an hour of increased
drunkenness pulling mercilessly at his erratic legs.

"John Porter's gal 's