necklace of discoloured pearls had been laid at his
door--the pearls which had come first from the depths of the sea, and
then from the depths of his love. His love had given up its dead as
the sea does, maimed past all recognition.

The barrier had been so undermined that on the night of Ralph's return
he had been on the point of telling Thorpe everything--indeed, nothing
but Ralph's swift entrance had stopped his impassioned speech. Was he
so weak that only a slight accident had kept him from utter
self-betrayal, after twenty-five years of magnificent control? Anthony
Dexter liked that word "magnificent" as it came into his thoughts in
connection with himself.

"Father wouldn't do it. Father always does the square thing, and I'm
his son." Ralph's words returned with a pang unbearably keen. Had
Father always done the square thing, or had Father been a coward, a
despicable shirk? And what if Ralph should some day come to know?

The man shuddered at the thought of the boy's face--if he knew. Those
clear, honest eyes would pierce him through and through, because
"Father always does the square thing."

Remorsely, the need of confession surged upon him. There was no
confessional in his church--he even had no church. Yet Thorpe was his
friend. What would Thorpe tell him to do?

Then Anthony Dexter laughed, for Thorpe had unconsciously told him what
to do--and he was spared the confession. As though written in letters
of fire, the words came back:

_The honour of the spoken word still holds him. He asked her to marry
him, and she consented. He was never released from his promise--did
not even ask for it. He slunk away like a cur. In the sight of God he
is hound to her by his own word still. He should go to her and either
fulfil his promise, or ask for release. The tardy fulfilment of his
promise would be the only atonement he could make_.

Had Evelina come back to demand atonement? Was this why the vision of
her confronted him everywhere? She waited for him on the road in
daylight, mocked him from the shadows, darted to meet him from every
tree. She followed him on the long and lonely ways he took to escape
her, and, as he walked, her step chimed in with his.

In darkness, Anthony Dexter feared to turn suddenly, lest he see that
black, veiled figure at his heels. She stood aside on the stairs to
let him pass her, entered the carriage with him and sat opposite, her
veiled face averted. She st