“And I am a forger,” he replied.

“Won’t take you long, will it?”

“No.”

The work was soon completed.  The scorched letters were thrown into the fire.  “She will never know the difference,” said Ellen.  “It is a sin to deceive her, but then, following the burglary, deception is a kindness; and there can’t be so very much wickedness in a sin that keeps one from being unhappy.”

“Or keeps one from being discovered,” he suggested.  She laughed, not mirthfully, but with an attempt at self-consolation.  “This is our first secret,” she said, as she opened the door.

“And I think you will keep it,” he replied, smiling at her.

She looked at him for a moment and rejoined:  “Indeed, fellow-criminal!  And if you didn’t smoke that horrid pipe, what a lovable convict you would make.”

When she was gone he stood again at the window.  The night was breathing hard.  He spoke to himself with mock concern:  “Two hours ago you were simply a fool, but now you are a scoundrel.”

CHAPTER XV.

TOLD HIM HER STORY.

When he awoke the next morning his blood seemed to be clogged somewhere far from the seat of thought, and then it came with a leap that brought back the night before.  “But I won’t argue with you,” he said, turning over.  “Argue,” he repeated.  “Why, it’s past argument now.  I will simply do the best I can and let the worst take care of itself.  But I do despise a vacillator, and I am one.  The old man maybe right.  Nature admires strength and never pities the weak.  And what am I to do if I’m not to carry out my part of this programme?  The trial is over,” he said as he got up.  “I am Henry Witherspoon.”

He was busy in his room at the office when Brooks entered.

“Well, hard at it, I see.”

“Yes.  Sit down; I’ll be through with this in a moment.”

He sat himself back from the desk, and Brooks asked, “Can’t you go out to lunch with me?”

“Isn’t time yet.”

“Hardly, that’s so,” Brooks admitted, looking at his watch.  “I happened to have business in this neighborhood and thought I’d drop in.  Say,” he added in a lower tone, and nodding his head toward the door of the adjoining room, “who is she?”

“The literary reviewer.”

“She’s a stunner.  What’s her name?”

“Miss Drury.”

“You might introduce me.”

“She’s busy.”

“Probably she’d go to lunch with us.”

“She refuses to go out with any one.”

“Hasn’t been here long, eh?” That was the floorwalker’s idea.  “Well, I must get back, if you can’t go with me.  So long.”

Henry took a book into Miss Drury’s room.  “Here’s something that was sent to me personally,” said he, “but treat it as you think it deserves.”

She looked up with a suggestion of a smile.  “Are you willing to trust the reputation of your friends to me?” she asked.