“And I shall.  Laura”—­she looked up quickly—­he repeated, “this is my last day in this office.  I have sold the paper, and the new owner will take charge to-morrow.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and then added:  “But on my part that is selfishness.  Of course you know what is best for yourself.”

“I told you yesterday that my story would be completed to-day.  It is, and I will tell it.”

The latest edition had left the press, and there was scarcely a sound in the building.  The sharp cry of the newsboy came from the street.

In telling her his story be did not begin with his early life, but with the time when first he met young Witherspoon.  It was a swift recital; and he sought not to surprise her; he strove to tone down her amazement.

“And to-day I took his son to him.  I saw the quick transfer of a mother’s love and of a father’s interest—­I saw a girl half-frightened at the thought that upon a stranger she had bestowed the intimacies of a sister’s affection.  I had made so strong an effort to be honorable with myself, at least; to persuade myself that I was fulfilling an honest mission, but had failed, for at last I had fallen to the level of an ordinary hypocrite; I had found myself to be a purse-proud fool.  When I went into that restaurant my sympathies were dead, and when that man pointed at the poor menial and said that his name was Henry DeGolyer”—­

“No, no,” she said, hiding her face, “your sympathies were not dead.  You—­you were a hero.”

“I was simply a frozen-blooded fool,” he replied.  “And now I must tell you something, but I know that it will make you despise me.  My father was a beast—­he broke my mother’s heart.  The first thing I remember, her dead arms were about me and a chill was upon me—­I knew not the meaning of death, but I was terrorized by its cold mystery.  I cried out, but no one came, and there in the dark, with that icy problem, I remained alone”—­

“Oh, don’t,” she cried, and her hands seemed to flutter in her lap.  She got up, and putting her arms on the top of the desk, leaned her head upon them.

“How could I despise you for that?” she sobbed.

“Not for that,” he bitterly answered, “but for this I was taken to the Foundlings’ Home—­was taken from that place to become the disgraceful property of an Italian hag.  She taught me, compelled me to be a thief.  Once she and some ruffians robbed a store and forced me to help them.  I ought to have died before that.  She demanded that I should steal something every day, and if I didn’t she beat me.  I got up early one morning and robbed her.  I took a handful of money out of her drawer and ran away.  But in the street a horror seized me, and I threw the money in the gutter and fled from it.  Don’t you see that I was born a thief?  But I have striven so hard since then to be an honorable man.  But don’t try not to pity, to despise me.  You can’t help it.  But, my God, I do love you!”