“But I should.  There have been men who haven’t—­and they’ve saved their lives by it.  But you know what we’ve called them.”

“In my case there’d be only you to call me that—­if you wanted to.”

“Oh no; there’d be—­you.”

“I can stand that.  I’ve stood it for eight years already.  If you think I haven’t had times when it’s been hell, you’re quite mistaken.  I wonder if you can guess what it means to me—­in here”—­he tapped his breast—­“to go round among all these good, kind, honorable people, passing myself off as Herbert Strange when all the time I’m Norrie Ford—­and a convict?  But I’m forced to.  There’s no way out of it.”

“Because there’s no way out of it isn’t a reason for going further in.”

“What does that matter?  When you’re in up to the eyes, what does it matter if you go over your head?”

“In this case it would matter to Evie.  That’s my point.  I have to protect her—­to save her.  There’s no one but me to do it—­and you.”

“Don’t count on me,” he said, savagely.  “I’ve the right, in this wild beast’s life, to seize anything I can snatch.”

He renewed his arguments, going over all the ground again.  She listened to him as she had once listened to his plea in his defence—­her pose pensive, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes pitiful.  As far as she was aware of her own feelings it was merely to take note that a kind of yearning over him, an immense sorrow for him and with him, had extinguished the fires that a few days ago were burning for herself.  It was hard to sit there heedless of his exposition and deaf to his persuasion.  Seeing her inflexible, he became halting in his speech, till finally he stopped, still looking at her with an unresenting, dog-like gaze of entreaty.

She made no comment when he ceased, and for a time they sat in silence.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, holding the packet toward her.

She shook her head wonderingly.

“It’s what I owe you.”  She made a gesture of deprecation.  “It’s the money you lent me,” he went on.  “It’s a tremendous satisfaction—­that at least—­to be able to bring it back to you.”

“But I don’t want it,” she stammered, in some agitation.

“Perhaps not.  But I want you to have it.”  He explained to her briefly what he had done in the matter.

“Couldn’t you give it to something?” she begged, “to some church or institution?”

“You can, if you like.  I mean to give it to you.  You see, I’m not returning it with expressions of gratitude, because anything I could say would be so inadequate as to be absurd.”

He left his chair and came to her, with the packet in his outstretched hand.  She shrank from it, rising, and retreating into the space of the bay-window.

“But I don’t want it,” she insisted.  “I never thought of your returning it.  I scarcely thought of the incident at all.  It had almost passed from my memory.”