ply. "I
prefer this to flight. Life would not be very valuable to me as a
skulking criminal in a foreign country. If it be declared forfeit to the
law, the law shall have it."

There was a sudden choking in Sir Allan's voice, and an almost piteous
look in his face.

"God forbid it!" he cried; "God forbid it!"

And suddenly this hardened man of the world, this professed cynic in an
age of cynicism, sank down in a chair and buried his head in his arms on
the green baize writing table, crushing the gold lace of his glittering
uniform, and the immaculate shirt front, with its single diamond stud.
It was only for a moment that a sudden rush of feeling overcame him. But
when he looked up his face was haggard and he looked years older.

"Does anyone--know of this?" he asked in a hoarse tone.

Mr. Maddison shook his head.

"No one whatever as yet," he said shortly. "If I am free to-morrow, I
shall go to Italy."

A sudden change swept into Sir Allan's face. He rose from his chair,
drawing himself up to his full height. Again he was the stately,
distinguished man of the world, with little feeling in his voice or
looks. Between him and this other man in his sober black, with wasted
face and thin stooping frame, there was a startling difference.

"I have no doubt that you will do your duty, Mr. Maddison," he said
coldly; "although, if I may be forgiven for saying so, your method
appears to me a little quixotic, and, in a certain sense, singularly
devoid of consideration for others. I will not detain you any longer."

He wrapped his long cloak around him and left the room in dignified
silence. Mr. Maddison followed him to the steps, and saw him get into
his carriage. They parted without another word.

CHAPTER XXIII

LOVERS

Bernard Maddison kept his engagement that evening, and dined alone with
Lady Thurwell and Helen. There had been some talk of going to the opera
afterwards, but no one seemed to care about it, and so it dropped
through.

"For my part," Lady Thurwell said, as they sat lingering over their
dessert, "I shall quite enjoy an evening's rest. You literary men, Mr.
Maddison, talk a good deal about being overworked, but you know nothing
of the life of a chaperon in the season. I tell Helen that she is sadly
wanting in gratitude. We do everything worth doing--picture galleries,
matinees, shopping, afternoon calls, dinners, dances, receptions--why,
there's no slavery like it."

Helen laughed softly