miling. "It was a horrible
time while it lasted but it was soon over. The worst part of it was
seeing those others, whom we could not help, drifting by."

"I should have been with them but for you," she said quietly. "Don't
think that I don't know it. Don't think that I don't regret sometimes,
Hugh, that I didn't trust you a little more completely. You are right
about so many things. But, Hugh, will you tell me something?"

"Of course!"

"Why were you so almost obstinately silent when father spoke of poor
Captain Granet's death?"

"Because I couldn't agree with what he said," Thomson replied. "I think
that Granet's death in exactly that fashion was the best thing that
could possibly have happened for him and for all of us."

She shivered as she looked at him.

"Aren't you a little cruel?" she murmured.

"I am not cruel at all," he assured her firmly. "Let me quote the words
of a greater man--'I have no enemies but the enemies of my country, and
for them I have no mercy.'"

"You still believe that Captain Granet--"

"There is no longer any doubt as to his complete guilt. As you know
yourself, the cipher letter warning certain people in London of the
coming raid, passed through his hands. He even came here to warn you.
There were other charges against him which could have been proved up to
the hilt. While we are upon this subject, Geraldine, let me finish with
it absolutely. Only a short time ago I confronted him with his guilt, I
gave him ten days during which it was my hope that he would embrace the
only honourable course left to him. I took a risk leaving him free, but
during the latter part of the time he was watched day and night. If he
had lived until this morning, there isn't any power on earth could have
kept him from the Tower, or any judge, however merciful, who could have
saved him from being shot."

"It is too awful," she faltered, "and yet--it makes me so ashamed, Hugh,
to think that I could not have trusted you more absolutely."

He opened his pocket-book and a little flush of colour came suddenly
into her cheeks. He drew out the ring silently.

"Will you trust yourself now and finally, Geraldine?" he asked.

She held out her finger.

"I shall be so proud and so happy to have it again," she whispered. "I
do really feel as though I had behaved like a foolish child, and I don't
like the feeling at all, because in these days one should be more than
ordinarily serious, shouldn't one? Shall I be