ght thus be most readily extracted from him. That was
his argument with himself, and his defence for what he had done. But
nevertheless he was aware that he had been driven to do it now,--to
pay the money at this special moment,--by an undercurrent of hope that
these enemies would think it best for themselves to go as soon as they
had his money in their hands. He wished to be honest, he wished to be
honourable, he wished that all that he did could be what the world
calls 'above board'; but still it was so essential for him and for his
wife that they should go! He had been very steady in assuring these
wretched ones that they might go or stay, as they pleased. He had been
careful that there should be a credible witness of his assurance. He
might succeed in making others believe that he had not attempted to
purchase their absence; but he could not make himself believe it.

Even though a jury should not convict him, there was so much in his
Australian life which would not bear the searching light of
cross-examination! The same may probably be said of most of us. In such
trials as this that he was anticipating, there is often a special
cruelty in the exposure of matters which are for the most part happily
kept in the background. A man on some occasion inadvertently takes a
little more wine than is good for him. It is an accident most uncommon
with him, and nobody thinks much about it. But chance brings the case
to the notice of the police courts, and the poor victim is published to
the world as a drunkard in the columns of all the newspapers. Some young
girl fancies herself in love, and the man is unworthy. The feeling
passes away, and none but herself, and perhaps her mother, are the
wiser. But if by some chance, some treachery, a letter should get
printed and read, the poor girl's punishment is so severe that she is
driven to wish herself in the grave.

He had been foolish, very foolish, as we have seen, on board the
Goldfinder,--and wicked too. There could be no doubt about that. When it
would all come out in this dreaded trial he would be quite unable to
defend himself. There was enough to enable Mrs. Bolton to point at him
with a finger of scorn as a degraded sinner. And yet,--yet there had
been nothing which he had not dared to own to his wife in the secrecy of
their mutual confidence, and which, in secret, she had not been able to
condone without a moment's hesitation. He had been in love with the
woman,--in love af