e, which seemed to thrill through Phebe's; but she only pressed her
pitiful hand more closely on his.

"I might have escaped last night," he went on, "but I stumbled over a
poor girl in the street, dying. A young girl, no older than you, without
a penny or a friend; a sinner too like myself; and I could not leave her
there alone. Only in finding help for her I lost my chance. The train to
London was gone, and there was no other till ten this morning. I
expected Mr. Clifford to be at the bank to-day; if I had only known he
would not be there I could have got away then. But I came here, why I
hardly know. You could not hide me for long if you would; but there was
no one else to help me."

"But what have you done, sir?" she asked, with a tremulous, long-drawn
sigh.

"Done?" he repeated; "ay! there's the question. I wonder if I can be
honest and true now with only Phebe Marlowe listening. I could have told
my mother, perhaps, if it had been of any use; but I would die rather
than tell Felicita. Done, Phebe! I've appropriated securities trusted to
my keeping, pledging some and selling others for my own use. I've stolen
L10,000."

"And you could be sent to prison for it?" she said, in a low voice,
glancing uneasily round as if she fancied she would be overheard.

"For I don't know how many years," he answered.

"It would kill Mrs. Sefton," she said. "Oh! how could you do it?"

"It was for Felicita I did it," he replied absently; "for my Felicita
only."

For a few minutes Phebe's brain was busy, but not yet with the most
sorrowful thoughts. There could be no shadow of doubt in her mind that
this dearest friend of hers, sitting beside her in the twilight, was
guilty of the crime he had confessed. But she could not as yet dwell
upon the crime. He was in imminent peril; and his peril threatened the
welfare of nearly all whom she loved. Ruin and infamy for him meant
ruin and infamy for them all. She must save him if possible.

"Phebe," he said, breaking the dreary silence, "I ought to tell you one
thing more. The money your father left with me--the savings of his
life--six hundred pounds--it is all gone. He intrusted it to me, and
made his will, appointing me your guardian; such confidence he had in
me. I have made both him and you penniless."

"I think nothing of that," she answered. "What should I ever have been
but for you? A dull, ignorant country girl, living a life little higher
than my sheep and cattle. We are r