“Don’t mistake me, Mr. Oswyn; I have not the least desire or intention to suppress this document.  I must expect you to judge me harshly; but you will surely see that my honour is as deeply concerned in the redressing of Mr. Rainham’s reputation as anyone’s can be, only I am naturally desirous of sparing my—­of sparing the innocent persons who are unfortunately mixed up in the affair unnecessary pain, the scandal of publicity.”

“There are certain persons who must absolutely know the truth,” said Oswyn bluntly.

“If I pledge you my word that the persons whom you mean shall be immediately enlightened, will you leave me to act alone?”

The other was silent for a moment revolving the proposition, half surprised at the unwonted humility of the barrister’s eagerness.  At last he said, with a short, ambiguous laugh: 

“I will leave it in your hands, Mr. Sylvester.”

He underwent a momentary repentance of his own readiness when he was in the street, and had turned his face to Soho again; it seemed almost childishly trusting.  But presently, remembering he knew not what shade of curious sternness in Sylvester’s manner, he decided that he had done wisely—­it was on some such result as this that he had counted in his coming—­and that the score, stupendous as it was, would be accurately settled.

For a long while, after his unwelcome visitor had departed, Charles sat silent and buried in deep thought.

From time to time he glanced vaguely at the letter which Oswyn had abandoned, and he wondered—­but quite inconsequently, and with no heart to make the experiment—­whether any further perusal of those disgraceful lines could explain or palliate the blunt obloquy of the writer’s conduct.  His concise, legal habit of mind forbade him to cherish any false illusions.

Lightmark, writing in an hour of intimate excitement, when the burden of his friend’s sacrifice seemed for a fleeting moment more intolerable than the wrench of explanation with his wife, had too effectually compromised himself.  He had cringed, procrastinated, promised; had been abject, hypocritical, explicit.

It seemed to Sylvester, in the first flush of his honourable disgust, that there was no generous restitution which the man had not promised, no craven meanness to which he had not amply confessed.

He dropped his correct head upon his hands with something like a moan, as he contrasted the ironical silence which had been Rainham’s only answer to this effusion—­a silence which had since been irrevocably sealed.  He had never before been so disheartened, had never seemed so intimately associated with disgrace.

Even the abortive ending of his passion—­he knew that this was deep-seated and genuine, although its outward expression had been formal and cold—­seemed a tolerable experience in comparison.

But this was dishonour absolute, and dishonour which could never be perfectly atoned.