" he said.

"Yes," she answered, "I have been to see him."

There was an accent in her voice, of terror and repugnance, as of one
who had witnessed some horrifying sight and was compelled to bear a
reluctant testimony to it. Roland himself felt a shock of antipathy at
the thought of his wife seeing this unknown corpse bearing his name. He
seemed to see her standing beside the dead, and looking down with those
beloved eyes upon the strange face, which would dwell for evermore in
her memory as well as his. Why had she subjected herself to this
needless pang?

"You wished it?" he said. "You consented to my plan?"

"Yes," she answered in the same monotonous tone of reluctant testimony.

"And it was best so, Felicita," he said tenderly; "we have done the dead
man no wrong. Remember he was alone, and had no friends to grieve over
his strange absence. If it had been otherwise there would have been a
terrible sin in our act. But it has set you free; it saves you and my
mother and the children. As long as I lived you would have been in
peril; but now there is a clear, safe course laid open for you. You will
go home to England, where in a few months it will be forgotten that your
husband was suspected of crime. Only old Clifford, and Marlowe, and two
or three others will remember it. When you have the means, repay those
poor people the money I owe them. And take comfort, Felicita. It would
have done them no good if I had been taken and convicted; that would not
have restored their money. My name then will be clear of all but
suspicion, and you will make it a name for our children to inherit."

"And you?" she breathed with lips that scarcely moved.

"I?" he said. "Why, I shall be dead! A man's life is not simply the
breath he draws: it is his country, his honor, his home. You are my
life, Felicita: you and my mother and Felix and Hilda; the old home
where my forefathers dwelt; my townsmen's esteem and good-will; the work
I could do, and hoped to do. Losing those I lost my life. I began to
die when I first went wrong. The way seemed right in my own eyes, but
the end of it was death. I told old Marlowe his money was as safe as in
the Bank of England, when I was keeping it in my own hands; but I
believed it then. That was the first step; this is the last. Henceforth
I am dead."

"But how will you live?" she asked.

"Never fear; Jean Merle will earn his living," he answered. "Let us
think of your future, my darling. Nay, let