don't make a drivelling coward of me
now."

And he rose, pushing his chair aside, leaving her there, kneeling
beside the desk, humbled and helpless. And he retreated within the
shadow of the room.

"Luke," she said, imploring him, "you are going to tell me all that
troubles you."

"Nothing," he replied curtly, "troubles me. You are wasting your
sympathy, you know. And I have a train to catch."

"You are not going, Luke?"

"Indeed I am."

"You condemn yourself for a crime which you have not committed."

"I am already as good as condemned. But I do not choose to hang for
the murder of the Clapham bricklayer's son."

He laughed. It almost sounded like a natural laugh--would have done
so, no doubt, to all ears except hers. Then he added dryly:

"Such a purposeless crime too. Fancy being hanged for killing Paul
Baker."

"Luke," she said simply, "you don't seem to realize how you are
hurting me!"

One ejaculation, "My God!" escaped him then. He stood quite still, in
the shadow, and presently his hand wandered with the old familiar
gesture down the smooth back of his head. She remained on her knees
and after awhile he came back to her, and sat down on the chair beside
the desk, his eyes on a level with hers.

"Look here, Lou," he said quietly, "I have got to go and that's all
about it. I have got to, do you understand? The consequences of this
crime cannot be faced--not by any one--not by me. There's Uncle Rad to
think of first. He is broken and ill; he has more than one foot in the
grave. The trial and the scandal couldn't be kept from him; it would
be bound to leak out sooner or later. It would be too big a scandal,
and it would kill him outright. Then, you see, Lou, it would never do!
I should be Earl of Radclyffe and a felon--it wouldn't do, now would
it? Who has ever heard of a peer undergoing a life sentence--or being
hanged? It wouldn't do--you know it wouldn't do----"

He reiterated this several times, with quaint insistence, as if he
were discussing with her the possibility or impossibility of attending
a race meeting, or a ball in Lent, she proving obstinate.

She did not reply, leaving him to ramble on in his somewhat wild
speech, hoping that if she let him talk on uninterruptedly, he would
sooner or later betray something of that enigma which lay hidden
behind the wooden mask which he still so persistently wore.

"Besides," he continued, still arguing, "there's Frank to think
of--the next heir