ask you in plain words what your
reason is for it. I ask as one who is willing to be your friend in this
matter; and I ask you as Helen's father."

A sudden spasm of pain passed across Bernard Maddison's face. He shrunk
back a little, and when he spoke his voice sounded hollow and strained.

"I do not deny you the right to ask--but I cannot tell you. Simply it is
my will. It is best so. It must be so."

"Can you not see, Mr. Maddison," the lawyer said quietly, "that to some
people this will seem almost like a tacit admission of guilt?"

"I shall plead 'not guilty,'" he answered in a low tone.

"That will be looked upon only as a matter of form," Mr. Dewes remarked.
"Mr. Maddison, I should not be doing my duty if I did not point out to
you that the evidence against you is terribly strong. Just consider it
yourself, only for a moment. Sir Geoffrey Kynaston is known to have
seriously wronged a member of your family. You are known to have sworn
an oath of vengeance against him. There are witnesses coming from
abroad to prove that. Immediately on his return to his home you take a
cottage, under an assumed name, close to his estate. He is found
murdered close to that cottage, of which it seems that at that time you
were the only occupant. You are the only person known to have been near
the spot. The dagger is proved to be yours. Letters are found in your
cabinet urging you to desist from your threatened vengeance. There is
the stain of blood on the floor of your study, near the place where you
would have washed your hands, and a blood-stained towel is found hidden
in the room. All this and more can be proved, and unless you can throw a
fresh light upon these things, there is no jury in the world that would
not find you guilty. You hold your fate in your own hands."

"I have considered all this," Bernard Maddison answered in a low tone.
"I know that my case is almost hopeless, and I am prepared for the
worst."

Mr. Thurwell turned away, and walked to the furthermost corner of the
apartment. For his daughter's sake, and for the sake of his own strong
liking for this man, he had resolutely shut his eyes upon the damning
chain of evidence against him. Now he felt that that he could do so no
longer. Nothing but guilt could account for this strange reticence. He
was forced to admit it at last. His compassion was still strong, but it
was mingled with a great horror. He felt that he must get away as soon
as possible.

Mr. D