listening to some one else. Her white forehead glistened.
There were voices in the hall.

"Mr. Cole! Mr. Cole! Where are you, Mr. Cole?"

I moved over to the locked door. My hand found the key. I turned round
with evil triumph in my heart, and God knows what upon my face. Rattray
did not move. With lifted hands the girl was merely begging him to go by
the door that was open, down the stair. He shook his head grimly. With
an oath I was upon them.

"Go, both of you!" I whispered hoarsely. "Now--while you can--and I can
let you. Now! Now!"

Still Rattray hung back.

I saw him glancing wistfully at my great revolver lying on the table
under the lamp. I thrust it upon him, and pushed him towards the door.

"You go first. She shall follow. You will not grudge me one last word?
Yes, I will take your hand. If you escape--be good to her!"

He was gone. Without, there was a voice still calling me; but now it
sounded overhead.

"Good-by, Eva," I said. "You have not a moment to lose."

Yet those divine eyes lingered on my ugliness.

"You are in a very great hurry," said she, in the sharp little voice of
her bitter moments.

"You love him; that is enough."

"And you, too!" she cried. "And you, too!"

And her pure, warm arms were round my neck; another instant, and she
would have kissed me, she! I know it. I knew it then. But it was more
than I would bear. As a brother! I had heard that tale before. Back I
stepped again, all the man in me rebelling.

"That's impossible," said I rudely.

"It isn't. It's true. I do love you--for this!"

God knows how I looked!

"And I mayn't say good-by to you," she whispered. "And--and I love
you--for that!"

"Then you had better choose between us," said I.

CHAPTER XX. THE STATEMENT OF FRANCIS RATTRAY

In the year 1858 I received a bulky packet bearing the stamp of the
Argentine Republic, a realm in which, to the best of my belief, I had
not a solitary acquaintance. The superscription told me nothing. In
my relations with Rattray his handwriting had never come under my
observation. Judge then of my feelings when the first thing I read was
his signature at the foot of the last page.

For five years I had been uncertain whether he was alive or dead. I had
heard nothing of him from the night we parted in Kirby Hall. All I knew
was that he had escaped from England and the English police; his letter
gave no details of the incident. It was an astonishing letter; my breath