She stood gazing into his face; not a tear in her eyes; no quiver of her lips.  She had passed that stage; she was like a victim led to the stake in whom nothing but dull endurance is left.

Jack backed into a chair and sat with bowed head, his cheeks in his hands.  Had the earth opened under him he could not have been more astounded.  Garry Minott a defaulter!  Garry a thief!  Everything seemed to whirl about him—­only the woman remained quiet—­still standing—­her calm, impassive eyes fixed on his bowed head; her dry, withering, soulless words still vibrating in the hushed room.

“When did this happen, Corinne—­this—­this taking of Mr. McGowan’s money?” The words came between his closed fingers, as if he, too, would shut out some horrible shape.

“Some two weeks ago.”

“When did you know of it?”

“Night before last, after you left him.  I knew he was in trouble, but I did not know it was as bad as this.  If Mr. Breen had helped me everything would have been all right, for Garry sold out all the stock he had in the Warehouse Company, and this ten thousand dollars is all he owes.”  She shivered as she spoke, and her pale, tired eyes closed as if in pain.  Nothing was said between them for a while, and neither of them stirred.  During the silence the front door was heard to open, letting in the village doctor, who mounted the stairs, his footfalls reverberating in Garry’s room overhead.

Jack raised his eyes at last and studied her closely.  The frail body seemed more crumpled and forlorn in the depths of the chair, where she had sunk, than when she had been standing before him.  The blonde hair, always so glossy, was dry as hemp; the small, upturned nose, once so piquant and saucy, was thin and pinched—­ almost transparent; the washed-out, colorless eyes, which in her girlhood had flashed and sparkled so roguishly, were half hidden under swollen lids.  The arms were flat, the hands like bird claws.  The white heat of a furnace of agony had shrivelled her poor body, drying up all the juices of its youth.

And yet with the scorching there had crept into the wan face, and into the tones of her tired, heart-broken voice something Jack had never found in her as a girl—­something of tenderness, unselfishness—­of self-sacrifice for another and with it there flamed up in his own heart a determination to help—­to wipe out everything—­to sponge the record, to reestablish the man who in a moment of agony had given way to an overpowering temptation and brought his wife to this condition.  A lump rose in his throat, and a look of his old father shone out of his face—­that look with which in the years gone by he had defied jury, district attorney, and public opinion for what he considered mercy.  And mercy should be exercised now.  Garry had never done one dishonest act before, and never, God helping, should he be judged for this.

He, John Breen, let Garry be called a common thief!  Garry whose every stand in Corklesville had been for justice; Garry whom Morris loved, whose presence brought a cheery word of welcome from every room he entered!  Let him be proclaimed a defaulter, insulted by ruffians like McGowan, and treated like a felon—­brilliant, lovable, forceful Garry!  Never, if he had to go down on his knees to Holker Morris or any other man who could lend him a dollar.