ooping position once more--all with
that swiftness which was so like the effect of an electrical current.
"Alan," he whispered.

"--What had you to do with it?" went on the clergyman.

Clare scoffed. "Wallace had nothing to do with it," she declared.
"What in the dickens is the matter with you?"

"Nothing to do with it?" repeated Farvel. Then, with sudden fury,
"Look at him!" He made for Wallace, pushing aside a chair that was not
in his way.

"Alan! Stop!" Clare rose, and Mrs. Milo rose, too.

"Come now, Wallace," Farvel said more quietly. "I want the truth."

Mrs. Milo hastened to her son. "Darling, I know you haven't done
anything wrong," she said, tenderly. "This 'friend' is trying to shift
the blame. Stand up for yourself, my boy. Mother believes in you."

Wallace's chin sank to his breast. At the end of his long arms, his
hands knotted and unknotted like the hands of a man in agony.

"My dearest!" comforted his mother. His suffering was evidence of
guilt to Balcome and Farvel; to her it was grief, at having been put
under unjust suspicion.

He lifted a white face. His eyes were streaming now, his whole body
trembling pitifully. "Oh, what'll I do!" he cried. "What'll I do!"
He tottered to the chair that Farvel had shoved aside, dropped into it,
and covered his face with both hands.

"My boy! My boy!"

"Don't act like a baby!" Clare came to him, and gave him a smart slap
on the shoulder. "Cut it out! You haven't done anything."

"Just a moment," interrupted Farvel. He shoved her out of the way as
impersonally as he had the chair. Then, "What do you mean by 'What'll
do'?" he demanded. And to Clare, pulling at his arm, "Let me alone, I
tell you. I'm going to know what's back of this!--_Wallace Milo_!"

Slowly Wallace got up. His cheeks were wet. His mouth was distorted,
like the mouth of a woeful small boy. His throat worked spasmodically,
so that the cords stood out above his collar.

Clare defended him fiercely. "What've you got into your head?" she
asked Farvel. "You're wrong! You're dead wrong!--Wallace, tell him
he's wrong!"

Wallace shook his head. "No," he said, striving to speak evenly; "no,
I won't. All these years I've suffered, too. I've wanted to make a
clean breast of it a million times--to get it off my conscience. Now,
I can. I"--he braced himself to go on--"I was at the Rectory so much,
Alan. I think that's how--it started. And--and she was nice to