“I will do what I can for you, Walter,” said his wife, whose unnatural calm was fast yielding to an overpowering agitation.

“Then give me fifty pounds and tell me the nearest way east,” answered the convict savagely.

“I have not got fifty pounds in the house,” protested Mary Goddard, in some alarm.  “I never keep much money—­I can get it for you—­”

“I have a great mind to look,” returned her husband suspiciously.  “How soon can you get it?”

“To-morrow night—­the time to get a cheque cashed—­”

“So you keep a banker’s account?”

“Of course.  But a cheque would be of no use to you—­I wish it were!”

“Naturally you do.  You would get rid of me at once.”  Suddenly his voice changed.  “Oh, Mary—­you used to love me!” cried the wretched man, burying his face in his hands.

“I was very wrong,” answered his wife, looking away from him.  “You did not deserve it—­you never did.”

“Because I was unfortunate!”

“Unfortunate!” repeated Mary Goddard with rising scorn.  “Unfortunate—­when you were deceiving me every day of your life.  I could have forgiven a great deal—­Walter—­but not that, not that!”

“What?  About the money?” he asked with sudden fierceness.

“The money—­no.  Even though you were disgraced and convicted, Walter, I would have forgiven that, I would have tried to see you, to comfort you.  I should have been sorry for you; I would have done what I could to help you.  But I could not forgive you the rest; I never can.”

“Bah!  I never cared for her,” said the convict.  But under his livid skin there rose a faint blush of shame.

“You never cared for me—­that is the reason I—­am not glad to see you—­”

“I did, Mary.  Upon my soul I did.  I love you still!” He rose and came near to his wife, and again he would have put his arm around her.  But she sprang to her feet with an angry light in her eyes.

“If you dare to touch me, I will give you up!” she cried.  Goddard shrank back to his chair, very pale and trembling violently.

“You would not do that, Mary,” he almost whined.  But she remained standing, looking at him very menacingly.

“Indeed I would—­you don’t know me,” she said, between her teeth.

“You are as hard as a stone,” he answered, sullenly, and for some minutes there was silence between them.

“I suppose you are going to turn me out into the rain again?” asked the convict.

“You cannot stay here—­you are not safe for a minute.  You will have to go.  You must come back to-morrow and I will give you the money.  You had better go now—­”

“Oh, Mary, I would not have thought it of you,” moaned Goddard.

“Why—­what else can I do?  I cannot let you sleep in the house—­I have no barn.  If any one saw you here it would be all over.  People know about it—­”

“What people?”