to the title. I believe that people in penal
servitude live an unconscionable time--especially if they are wanted
to die. Think of poor old Frank waiting to come into his own--into an
old title held by a felon. It is all much too much of a muddle, Lou.
It is simpler that I should go----"

"But," she said, really trying now to speak as simply, as calmly as he
did himself, "all these arguments which you are using now, Luke, will
equally apply if you make yourself a fugitive from justice."

"Oh, I shouldn't be that for very long!" he said lightly.

"You are thinking of suicide?"

"No," he replied simply, "I am not. Only of the chances of a wandering
life."

"You seem to look at every chance, Luke, except one."

"Which one is that?"

"That though you might be arrested, though you might be accused and
even tried for the murder of--of that man--truth might come out, and
your innocence proved."

"That would be impossible, Lou," he said quietly.

"Why--in Heaven's name, Luke!" she exclaimed passionately, "why?"

"My dagger-stick was found inside the railings of the park--and the
stains on it are irrefutable proofs."

"That's only circumstantial evidence," she argued, "you can demolish
it, if you choose."

"I cannot," he replied. "I should plead guilty--Mr. Dobson says that
if I plead guilty, counsel can plead extenuating
circumstances--intense provocation and so forth--and I might get a
more lenient sentence."

"Luke," she said, looking him straight in the face, compelling his
eyes to meet hers, for in their clear depths she meant to read the
truth, to compel the truth at last. He had never lied in his life. If
he lied now she would know it, she would read it in his face. "Luke!
you are shielding some one by taking the crime on your own shoulders."

But his eyes remained perfectly clear and steady as they gazed
straight into hers. There was not a shadow in them, not a quiver, as
he replied quietly:

"No, Lou, I am shielding no one."

"It was you who killed that man--Philip de Mountford--or Paul
Baker--whoever he may be?"

And he answered her firmly, looking steadily into her face:

"It was I."

She said nothing more then, but rose to her feet, and went quite close
up to him. With a gesture that had no thought of passion in it, only
sublime, motherly love, she took Luke's head in both her hands and
pressed it to her heart.

"My poor old Luke!" she murmured.

She smoothed his hair as a mother does to