He really had something to say for himself, and he said it with sufficient moderation.  That he had been guilty of serious offenses he made no attempt to deny; but he pleaded that he had not escaped without justly suffering for what he had done.  He had been entirely in the wrong when he threatened to take the child away from her mother by force of law; but had he not been punished when his wife obtained her Divorce, and separated him from his little daughter as well as from herself? (No:  Mrs. Presty failed to see it; if anybody had suffered by the Divorce, the victim was her injured daughter.) Still patient, Herbert did not deny the injury; he only submitted once more that he had suffered his punishment.  Whether his life with Sydney Westerfield had or had not been a happy one, he must decline to say; he would only declare that it had come to an end.  She had left him.  Yes! she had left him forever.  He had no wish to persuade her to return to their guilty life; they were both penitent, they were both ashamed of it.  But she had gone away without the provision which he was bound in honor to offer to her.

“She is friendless; she may be in a state of poverty that I tremble to think of,” Herbert declared.  “Is there nothing to plead for me in such anxiety as I am suffering now?” Mrs. Presty stopped him there; she had heard enough of Sydney already.

“I see nothing to be gained,” she said, “by dwelling on the past; and I should be glad to know why you have come to this place to-night.”

“I have come to see Kitty.”

“Quite out of the question.”

“Don’t tell me that, Mrs. Presty!  I’m one of the wretchedest men living, and I ask for the consolation of seeing my child.  Kitty hasn’t forgotten me yet, I know.  Her mother can’t be so cruel as to refuse.  She shall fix her own time, and send me away when she likes; I’ll submit to anything.  Will you ask Catherine to let me see Kitty?”

“I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“For private reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“For reasons into which you have no right to inquire.”

He got up from his chair.  His face presented the same expression which Mrs. Presty had seen on it when he first entered the room.

“When I came in here,” he said, “I wished to be certain of one thing.  Your prevarication has told me what I wanted to know.  The newspapers had Catherine’s own authority for it, Mrs. Presty, when they called her widow.  I know now why my brother, who never deceived me before, has deceived me about this.  I understand the part that your daughter has been playing—­and I am as certain as if I had heard it, of the devilish lie that one of you—­perhaps both of you—­must have told my poor child.  No, no; I had better not see Catherine.  Many a man has killed his wife, and has not had such good reason for doing it as I have.  You are quite right to keep me away from her.”

He stopped—­and looked suddenly toward the door.  “I hear her,” he cried, “She’s coming in!”