But Garratt Skinner’s eyes were upon Sylvia, and in his face, too, there was a humorous look of pride.  She had courage.  He remembered how she had confronted him when Walter Hine lay sick.  He said no word to her, however, and again he turned to Chayne, who went on: 

“There is also your past career to add weight to the argument, Mr.—­Strood.”

Point by point Chayne set out in detail the case for the prosecution.  Garratt Skinner listened without interruption, but he knew that he was beaten.  The evidence against him was too strong.  It might not be enough legally to secure his conviction at a public trial—­though even upon that question there would be the gravest doubt—­but it would be enough to carry certitude to every ear which listened and to every eye which read.

“The game is played out,” Chayne continued.  “We have Walter Hine, and we shall not let him slip back into your hands.  How much of the story we shall tell him we are not yet sure—­but all if it be necessary.  And, if it be necessary, to others beside.”

There was a definite threat in the last words.  But Garratt Skinner had already made up his mind.  Since the game was played out, since defeat had come, he took it without anger or excuse.

“Very well,” he said.  “Peace in the family circle is after all very desirable—­eh, Sylvia?  I agree with the deepest regret to part from my young friend, Walter Hine.  I leave him in your hands.”  He was speaking with a humorous magnanimity.  But his eyes wandered back to Sylvia, who sat some distance away in the embrasure of the window, with her face in her hands; and his voice changed.

“Sylvia,” he said, gently, “come here.”

Sylvia rose and walked over to the table.

The waiting, the knowledge which had come to her during the last few days, had told their tale.  She had the look which Chayne too well remembered, the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the languor in her walk, the pallor in her cheeks, the distress and shame in her expression.

“Sit down,” he said; and she obeyed him reluctantly, seating herself over against him.  She gazed at the table-cloth with that mutinous look upon her face which took away from her her womanhood and gave to her the aspect of a pretty but resentful child.  Garratt Skinner for the life of him could not but smile at her.

“Well, Sylvia, you have beaten me.  You fought your fight well, and I bear you no malice,” he said, lightly.  “But,” and his voice became serious again, “you sit in judgment on me.”

Sylvia raised her eyes quickly.

“No!” she cried.

“I think so,” he persisted.  “I don’t blame you.  Only I should like you to bear this in mind; that you have in your own life a reason to go gently in your judgments of other people.”

Chayne stepped forward, as though he would interfere, but Sylvia laid her hand upon his arm and checked him.

“I don’t think you understand, Hilary,” she said, quickly.  She turned to her father and looked straight at him with an eager interest.