ut we won't. I shall prevent that. I have a
task before me which will save this foulest crime from being
committed."

Mrs. Ogilvie dropped into a chair; she burst into hysterical weeping.

"What you say can't be true, Phil. Oh, Phil, darling, do have mercy."

"How?" he asked.

"Don't do anything so mad, so rash. You always had such a queer,
troublesome sort of conscience. Phil, I cannot stand poverty, I cannot
stand being dragged down; I must have this place; I have set my heart
on it."

He came up to her and took both her hands.

"Is it worth evil?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Is anything under the sun worth evil?" She made no answer. He dropped
her hands and left the room.

CHAPTER XX.

Ogilvie went up to Sibyl. Suffering and love had taught him many
lessons, amongst others those of absolute self-control. His face was
smiling and calm as he crossed the room, bent over the child and
kissed her. Those blue eyes of hers, always so full of penetration and
of knowledge, which was not all this earth, could detect no sorrow in
her father's.

"I must go to town, I shall be away for as short a time as possible.
As soon as I come back I will come to you," he said. "Look after her,
please, Miss Winstead. If you cannot remain in the room, send nurse.
Now, don't tire yourself, my little love. Remember that father will be
back very soon."

"Don't hurry, father darling," replied Sibyl "'cos I am quite happy
thinking about you, even if you are not here."

He went away, ran downstairs, put on his hat and went out. His wife
was standing in the porch.

"One moment, Phil," she called, "where are you going?"

"To town."

"To do what?"

"To do what I said," he answered, and he gave her a strange look,
which frightened her, and caused her to fall back against the wall.

He disappeared down the avenue, she sank into a chair and began
to weep. She was thoroughly miserable and frightened. Philip had
returned, but all pleasant golden dreams were shattered, for although
he had sent a cablegram to Lord Grayleigh, saying that all was well,
better than well, his conscience was speaking to him, that troublesome
terrible conscience of his, and he was about to destroy his own work.

"What fearful creatures men with consciences are," moaned Mrs.
Ogilvie.

Meanwhile Ogilvie walked quickly up the avenue. Just at the gates he
met an old couple who were coming in. They were a queer-looking old
pair, dressed in old-