fashioned for pens and ledgers.

"You were abroad when I--did what I did. Vyse was merciless. I told him
I could put it back if he'd give me the chance. But a thief was a thief
to him--particularly when his own pocket was involved. He meant to send
me to prison. The judge held him--he was his father-in-law--and he was
an old man with a wife and children of his own."

Herold was silent for a moment, and his gaze became vague and remote,
then he lifted his head sharply:

"A man makes one slip like that and the world damns him forever. And I
tell you, Marche, that I am not dishonest by nature or in my character.
God alone knows why I took those securities, meaning, of course, to
return them, as all the poor, damned fools do mean when they do what I
did. But Vyse made it a condition that I was to leave the country, and
there was no chance of restitution unless I could remain in New York and
do what I knew how to do--no chance, Marche--and so fortune ebbed, and
my wife died, and the old judge saw me working on the water-front in
Norfolk one day, and gave me this place. That is all."

"Why did you feign illness?" asked Marche, in an altered voice.

"You know why."

"You thought I'd discharge you?"

"Of course."

Marche stepped nearer. "Why did you come to me here to-night?"

Herold flushed deeply. "It was your right to know--and my daughter's
right--before she broke her heart."

"I see. You naturally suppose that I would scarcely care to marry the
daughter of a----" He stopped short, and Herold set his teeth.

"Say it," he said, "and let this end matters for all of us. Except that
I have saved seven thousand dollars toward--what I took. I will draw you
a check for it now."

He walked steadily to the table, laid out a thin checkbook, and with his
fountain-pen wrote out a check for seven thousand dollars on a Norfolk
bank.

"There you are, Marche," he said wearily. "I made most of it buying and
selling pine timber in this district. It seemed a little like expiation,
too, working here for you, unknown to you. I won't stay, now, of course.
I'll try to pay back the rest--little by little--somehow."

"The way to pay it back," said Marche, "is to do the work you are fitted
for."

Herold looked up. "How can I?"

"Why not?"

"I could not go back to New York. I have no money to go with, even if I
could find a place for myself again."

"Your place is open to you."

Herold stared at him.

Marche repeated the as