“In a worldly sense, I prospered; in New Zealand, in Tasmania.  Fate, as if to atone for having delayed her favors, now lavished them freely; work became easy; a mine or two that I was lucky enough to locate, yielded, and continues to yield, unexpected returns.  Without especially desiring riches, I found myself more than well-to-do.”

“And then having fairly, through your own efforts, won a place in the world, having conquered fortune, why did you return to England knowing the risk, that some one of these fellows like Gillett, the police agent, might—­”

“Why,” said John Steele, “because I wished to sift, to get to the very bottom of this crime for which I was convicted.  For all real wrong-doing—­resisting officers of the law—­offenses against officialdom—­I had paid the penalty, in full, I believe.  But this other matter—­that was different.  It weighed on me through those years on the island and afterward.  A jury had convicted me wrongfully; but I had to prove it; to satisfy myself, to find out beyond any shadow of a doubt, and—­”

“He did.”  For the first time Captain Forsythe spoke.  “Steele has in his possession full proofs of his innocence and I have seen them; they go to show that he suffered through the cowardice of a miserable cad, a titled scoundrel who struck his hand from the gunwale of the boat when the Lord Nelson went down, yes, you told that story in your fevered ramblings, Steele.”

“Forsythe!” the other’s voice rang out warningly.  “Didn’t I tell you the part he played was to be forgotten unless—­”

“All right, have your way,” grudgingly.

“A titled scoundrel!  There was only one person of rank on the Lord Nelson besides myself, and—­Forsythe”—­the old nobleman’s voice called out sharply—­“you have said too much or too little.”

John Steele made a gesture.  “I have given my word not to—­”

“But I haven’t!” said Captain Forsythe.  “The confession I procured, and what I subsequently learned, led me directly to—­Here is the tale, Sir Charles.”

* * * * *

It was over at last; they were gone, Sir Charles and Captain Forsythe; their hand-clasps still lingered in his.  That was something, very much, John Steele told himself; but, oddly, with no perceptible thrill of satisfaction.  Had he become dead to approval?  What did he want?  Or what had been wanting?  Sir Charles had been affable, gracious; eminently just in his manner.  But the old man’s sensibilities had been cruelly shocked; Ronsdale, the son of his old friend, a miserable coward who, if the truth were known, would be asked to resign from every club he belonged to!  And he, Sir Charles, had desired a closer bond between him and one he loved well, his own niece!

Perhaps John Steele divined why the hearty old man’s face had grown so grave.  Sir Charles might well experience shame for this retrogression of one of his own class, the broken obligations of nobility; the traditions shattered.  But he thanked John Steele in an old-fashioned, courtly way for what he had once done for his niece whose life he had saved.  Perhaps it was the reaction in himself; perhaps John Steele merely fancied a distance in the other’s very full and punctilious expression of personal indebtedness; his courteous reiteration that he should feel honored by his presence at any and all times at his house!