ies of their meeting, Miles
Calhoun said:

"My son, things are black, but they're not so black they can't be
brightened. If you killed Erris Boyne, he deserved it. He was a bad man,
as the world knows. That isn't the point. Now, there's only one kind of
quarrel that warrants non-disclosure."

"You mean about a woman?" remarked Dyck coldly.

The old man took a pinch of snuff nervously. "That's what I mean. Boyne
was older than you, and perhaps you cut him out with a woman."

A wry smile wrinkled the corners of Dyck's mouth. "You mean his wife?"
he asked with irony. "Wife--no!" retorted the old man. "Damn it, no! He
wasn't the man to remain true to his wife."

"So I understand," remarked Dyck; "but I don't know his wife. I never
saw her, except at the trial, and I was so sorry for her I ceased to be
sorry for my self. She had a beautiful, strange, isolated face."

"But that wouldn't influence Boyne," was the reply. "His first wife
had a beautiful and interesting face, but it didn't hold him. He went
marauding elsewhere, and she divorced him by act of parliament. I
don't think you knew it, but his first wife was one of your
acquaintances--Mrs. Llyn, whose daughter you saw just before we left
Playmore. He wasn't particular where he made love--a barmaid or a
housekeeper, it was all the same to him."

"I hope the daughter doesn't know that Erris Boyne was her father," said
Dyck.

"There's plenty can tell her, and she'll hear it sooner or later."

Miles Calhoun looked at his son with dejection.

His eyes wandered over the grimly furnished cell. His nose smelled the
damp of it, and suddenly the whole soul of him burst forth.

"You don't give yourself a chance of escape, Dyck You know what Irish
juries are. Why don't you tell the truth about the quarrel? What's the
good of keeping your mouth shut, when there's many that would profit by
your telling it?"

"Who would profit?" asked Dyck.

"Who would profit!" snarled the old man. "Well, you would profit first,
for it might break the dark chain of circumstantial evidence. Also, your
father would profit. I'd be saved shame, perhaps; I'd get relief from
this disgrace. Oh, man, think of others beside yourself!

"Think of others!" said Dyck, and a queer smile lighted his haggard
face. "I'd save myself if I honourably could."

"The law must prove you guilty," the old man went on. "It's not for you
to prove yourself innocent. They haven't proved you guilty yet."

The o