“Tell me what you know,” said the soft and honeyed voice, ever sweeter, ever more soothing, more deadening to her senses.

Leam’s whole form drooped, yielded, submitted.  In another moment she would have made full confession, when suddenly the harsh cry of a frightened bird near at hand broke up the sleepy harmonies and scattered the compelling charm.  Leam started, flung back her head, opened her eyes wide and fixed them full on her inquisitor.  Then she stiffened herself as if for a personal resistance, passed her hands over her face as if she were brushing it from cobwebs, and said in a natural voice, offended, haughty, cold, “I did not hear what you said.  I was nearly asleep.”

“Wake, then,” said Mr. Gryce, making a movement as if he too were brushing away cobwebs from her face.  After a pause he took both her hands in his.  “Child,” he said, speaking naturally, without a lisp and with a broader provincial accent than usual—­speaking, too, with ill-concealed emotion—­“some day you will need a friend.  When that day dawns come to me.  Promise me this.  I know your life and what lies in the past.  Do not start—­no, nor cover your face, my child.  I am safe, and so are you.  You must feel this, that I may be of use to you when you want me; for you will want me some day, and I shall be the only one who can save you.”

“What do you know?” asked Leam, making one supreme effort over herself and confronting him.

“Everything,” said Mr. Gryce solemnly.

“Then I am lost,” she answered in a low voice.

“You are saved,” he said with tenderness.  “Do not be afraid of me:  rather thank God that He has given you into my care.  You have two friends now instead of one, and the latest the most powerful.  Good-bye, my poor misguided and bewildered child.  A greater than you or I once said, ’Her sins, which are many, are forgiven her, because she loved much.’  Cannot you take that to yourself?  If not now, nor yet when remorse is your chief thought, you will later.  Till then, trust and hope.”

He turned to leave her, tears in his eyes.

“Stay!” cried Leam, but he only shook his head and waved his hand.

“Not now,” he said, smiling as he broke through the wood, leaving her with the impression that a chasm had suddenly opened at her feet, into which sooner or later she must fall.

She stood a few moments where the old philosopher and born detective had left her, then went up the path to the hiding-place where she had so often before found the healing to be had from Nature and solitude—­to the old dark-spreading yew, which somehow seemed to be more her friend than any human being could be or was—­more than even Alick in his devotedness or Mr. Gryce in his protection.  And there, sitting on the lowest branch, and sitting so still that the birds came close to her and were not afraid, she dreamed herself back to the desolate days of her innocent youth—­those days which were before she had committed a crime or gained friend or lover.