se?" asked Felicita.

"I shall prosecute him as I would prosecute a common thief or burglar,"
answered Mr. Clifford. "His crime is more dishonorable and cowardly."

"Is it not cruel to say this to me?" she asked, yet in a tranquil tone
which startled him.

"Cruel!" he repeated again; "I have not been in the habit of choosing
words. You asked me a question, and I gave you the answer that was in my
mind. I never forgive. Those who pass over crimes make themselves
partakers in those crimes. Roland has robbed not only me, but half a
dozen poor persons, to whom such a loss is ruin. Would it be right to
let such a man escape justice?"

"You think he has gone away on purpose?" she said.

"He has absconded," answered Mr. Clifford, "and the matter is already in
the hands of the police. A description of him has been telegraphed to
every police station in the kingdom. If he is not out of it he can
barely escape now."

Felicita's pale face could not grow paler, but she shivered perceptibly.

"I am telling you bluntly," he said, "because I believe it is best to
know the worst at once. It is terrible to have it falling drop by drop.
You have courage and strength; I see it. Take an old man's word for it,
it is better to know all in its naked ugliness, than have it brought to
light bit by bit. There is not the shadow of a doubt of Roland's crime.
You do not believe him innocent yourself?"

"No," she replied in a low, yet steady voice; "no. I must tell the
truth. I cannot comfort myself with the belief that he is innocent."

Mr. Clifford's keen eyes were fastened upon Felicita with admiration.
Here was a woman, young and pallid with grief and dread, who neither
tried to move him by prayers and floods of tears, nor shrank from
acknowledging a truth, however painful. He had never seen her before,
though the costly set of jewels she was wearing had been his own gift to
her on her wedding. He recognized them with pleasure, and looked more
attentively at her beautiful but gloomy face. When he spoke again it was
in a manner less harsh and abrupt than it had been before.

"I am not going to ask you any questions about Roland," he said; "you
have a right, the best right in the world, to screen him, and aid him in
escaping from the just consequences of his folly and crime."

"You might ask me," she interrupted, "and I should tell you the simple
truth. I do so now, when I say I know nothing about him. He told me he
was going to London