h a sinking heart he recalled Cynthia's description of the man. To a
certain extent it still fitted him, but he imagined that those twelve
years had had a hardening effect upon him, making rigid that which had
always been stubborn, driving the iron deeper and ever deeper into his
soul, till only iron remained. Many were the nights he spent pondering
over the romance of the woman he loved. What subtle attraction in this
hardened sinner had lured her heart away? Was it possible that the
fellow had ever cared for her? Had he ever possessed even the rudiments
of a heart?

The message he had read in the firelight--the brief line which this man
had written--was the only answer he could find to these doubts. It
seemed to point to something--some pulsing warmth--which could not have
been kindled from nothing. And again the memory of a woman's tears would
come upon him, spurring him to fresh effort. Surely the man for whom she
was breaking her heart could not be wholly evil, nor yet wholly callous!
Somewhere behind those steely blue eyes, there must dwell some answer to
the riddle. It might be that Cynthia would find it, though he failed.
But he shrank, with an aversion inexpressible, from letting her try, so
deeply rooted had his conviction become that her cherished girlish fancy
was no more than the misty gold of dreams.

Yet for her sake he persevered--for the sake of those precious tears
that had so wrung his heart he would do that which he had set out to do,
notwithstanding the utmost discouragement. An insoluble enigma the man
might be to him, but he would not for that turn back from the task that
he had undertaken. West should have his chance in spite of it.

They were riding together over the crisp turf of the park one frosty
morning in November, when Babbacombe turned quietly to his companion,
pointing to the chimneys of a house half-hidden by trees, ahead of them.

"I want to go over that place," he said. "It is standing empty, and
probably needs repairs."

West received the announcement with a brief nod. He never betrayed
interest in anything.

"Shall I hold your animal?" he suggested, as they reached the gate that
led into the little garden.

"No. Come in with me, won't you? We can hitch the bridles to the post."

They went in together through a rustling litter of dead leaves. The
house was low, and thatched--a picturesque dwelling of no great size.

Babbacombe led the way within, and they went from room to