entence in his sardonic way, "you have chosen to dedicate to the
service of fraud abilities and attainments which, if turned from the
outset into a legitimate channel, would no doubt have sufficed to
secure you without excessive effort a subsistence one degree above
starvation--possibly even, with good luck, a sordid and squalid
competence. You have preferred to embark them on a lawless life of
vice and crime--and I will not deny that you seem to have had a good
run for your money. Society, however, whose mouthpiece I am, cannot
allow you any longer to mock it with impunity. You have broken its
laws openly, and you have been found out." He assumed the tone of
bland condescension which always heralds his severest moments. "I
sentence you to Fourteen Years' Imprisonment, with Hard Labour."

The prisoner bowed, without losing his apparent composure. But his
eyes strayed away again to the far end of the hall, where the two
weeping women, with a sudden sharp cry, fell at once in a faint on
one another's shoulders, and were with difficulty removed from court
by the ushers.

As we left the room, I heard but one comment all round, thus voiced
by a school-boy: "I'd a jolly sight rather it had been old Vandrift.
This Clay chap's too clever by half to waste on a prison!"

But he went there, none the less--in that "cool sequestered vale
of life" to recover equilibrium; though I myself half regretted it.

I will add but one more little parting episode.

When all was over, Charles rushed off to Cannes, to get away from
the impertinent stare of London. Amelia and Isabel and I went with
him. We were driving one afternoon on the hills beyond the town,
among the myrtle and lentisk scrub, when we noticed in front of us
a nice victoria, containing two ladies in very deep mourning. We
followed it, unintentionally, as far as Le Grand Pin--that big pine
tree that looks across the bay towards Antibes. There, the ladies
descended and sat down on a knoll, gazing out disconsolately towards
the sea and the islands. It was evident they were suffering very
deep grief. Their faces were pale and their eyes bloodshot. "Poor
things!" Amelia said. Then her tone altered suddenly.

"Why, good gracious," she cried, "if it isn't Cesarine!"

So it was--with White Heather!

Charles got down and drew near them. "I beg your pardon," he said,
raising his hat, and addressing Madame Picardet: "I believe I have
had the pleasure of meeting you. And since I h