would be
out of the life of her who had grown to be to him the very sun of his
existence.

Furthermore, Nugent had prevailed on him to come over to The Hut that
morning and lie low there till it should be time to start. He had been
hoping against hope that he would be able to have one last interview
with Violet, but Nugent had been so strongly against it that he had
yielded.

"What's the use, my dear fellow?" his plausible mentor had said. "You
couldn't take a proper farewell of her if you saw her. If you are to
succeed in sparing her the horror of learning of your original offence,
neither Miss Maynard nor any one else must know that you are on the
wing. That little devil, Louise Aubin, would be sure to get wind of it
and inform the police. As it is, I am on tenterhooks lest she should
discover what is up. Write Miss Maynard a letter if you like, or, better
still, I will explain to her verbally to-morrow--after you have got
clear off."

"What should you tell her?" Leslie asked dully.

"I should do my best to whitewash your memory by throwing ridicule on
the allegation that causes your flight," was the prompt answer. "In
fact, I should go somewhere near the truth, and assert that it is not
the murder charge that you are running away from, but from the
revelation of some escapade which it would incidentally bring out. If
you like, I will tell her that you will write when you have reached your
destination."

Leslie had jumped at the proposition, as it seemed to make his desertion
less abrupt and heartless. Also it deferred for a little while the final
severance, though he had no hope but that Violet would despise him
utterly, hate the very sound of his name, for what she would deem his
cowardice, even if she did not believe him guilty of the graver crime of
murder.

"Thank you, I shall be obliged if you will take that course," he had
said, though he hated to be placed under an obligation to the man whose
cunning greed had brought him to this pass.

"Not at all," Nugent had answered glibly, as if divining his thoughts.
"I regard it as a kind of atonement to smooth matters as best I can,
for I have come to see the heinousness of our joint offence, Chermside.
I have been filled with remorse for some time that I did not repent of
it as soon as you did, and I can sympathize the more readily with you,
who have, I think, a keener pang than that of remorse to bear."

The little touch of right feeling from such an unexp