“There, there!  You owe me no apology, and I ask no explanation; it was all a great mistake.”

“Yes, and all my fault.  She was not to blame; it was my folly.  I drove her to—­desperation.”

“I want to ask just one thing.  Was it Ferdy Wickersham who made you believe I had deceived you?” asked Keith, standing straight above him.

“In part—­mainly.  But I was mad.”  He drew his hand across his forehead, sat back in his chair, and, with eyes averted, sighed deeply.  His thoughts were evidently far from Keith.  Keith’s eyes rested on him, and his face paled a little with growing resolution.

“One question, Norman.  Pardon me for asking it.  My only reason is that I would give my life, a worthless life you once saved, to see you as you once were.  I know more than you think I know.  You love her still?  I know you must.”

Norman turned his eyes and let them rest on Keith’s face.  They were filled with anguish.

“Better than my life.  I adore her.”

Keith drew in his breath with a long sigh of relief and of content.

“Oh, I have no hope,” Norman went on despairingly.  “I gave her every right to doubt it.  I killed her love.  I do not blame her.  It was all my fault.  I know it now, when it is too late.”

“It is not too late.”

Norman shook his head, without even looking at Keith.

“Too late,” he said, speaking to himself.

Keith rose to his feet.

“It is not too late,” he declared, with a sudden ring in his voice; “she loves you.”

Norman shook his head.

“She hates me; I deserve it.”

“In her heart she adores you,” said Keith, in a tone of conviction.

Norman turned away with a half-bitter laugh.

“You don’t know.”

“I do know, and you will know it, too.  How long shall you be here?”

“I shall spend the night here,” said Norman.  “I must be ready for whatever may happen to-morrow morning.—­I have not thanked you yet.”  He extended his hand to Keith.  “You stemmed the tide for me to-day.  I know what it must have cost you.  I cannot regret it, and I know you never will; and I beg you to believe that, though I go down to-morrow, I shall never forget it, and if God spares me, I will repay you.”

Keith’s eyes rested on him calmly.

“You paid me long ago, Norman.  I was paying a debt to-day, or trying to pay one, in a small way.  It was not I who made that deposit to-day, but a better man and a finer gentleman than I can ever hope to be—­my father.  It was he who inspired me to do that; he paid that debt.”

From what Keith had heard, he felt that he was justified in going to see Mrs. Wentworth.  Possibly, it was not too late; possibly, he might be able to do something to clear away the misapprehension under which she labored, and to make up the trouble between her and Norman.  Norman still loved her dearly, and Keith believed that she cared for him.  Lois Huntington always declared that she did, and she could not have been deceived.