hope to make you realise her look, or comprehend the pang of utter self-abasement with which I succumbed before it?  It was so terrible that I seemed to hear her utter words, though I am sure she did not speak; and with some wild idea of stemming the torrent of her reproaches, I made an effort at explanation, and impetuously cried:  “It was not for my own good, Agatha, not for self altogether, I did this.  I too loved you, madly, despairingly, and, good brother as I seemed, I was jealous of James and hoped to take his place in your regard if I could show a greater prosperity and get for you those things his limited prospects denied him.  You enjoy money, beauty, ease; I could see that by your letters, and if James could not give them to you and I could—­Oh, do not look at me like that!  I see now that millions could not have bought you.”

“Despicable!” was all that came from her lips.  At which I shuddered and groped about for the handle of the door.  But she would not let me go.  Subduing with an unexpected grand self-restraint the emotions which had hitherto swelled too high in her breast for either speech or action, she thrust out one arm to stay me and said in short, commanding tones:  “How was this thing done?  You say you took the money, yet it was James who was sent to collect it—­or so my father says.”  Here she tore her looks from me and cast one glance at her father.  What she saw I cannot say, but her manner changed and henceforth she glanced his way as much as mine and with nearly as much emotion.  “I am waiting to hear what you have to say,” she exclaimed, laying her hand on the door over my head so as to leave me no opportunity for escape.  I bowed and attempted an explanation.

“Agatha,” said I, “the commission was given to James and he rode to Sutherlandtown to perform it.  But it was on the day when he was accustomed to write to you, and he was not easy in his mind, for he feared he would miss sending you his usual letter.  When, therefore, he came to the hotel and saw me in Philemon’s room—­I was often there in those days, often without Philemon’s knowing it—­he saw, or thought he did, a way out of his difficulties.  Entering where I was, he explained to me his errand, and we being then—­though never, alas! since—­one in everything but the secret hopes he enjoyed, he asked me if I would go in his stead to Mr. Orr’s room, present my credentials, and obtain the money while he wrote the letter with which his mind was full.  Though my jealousy was aroused and I hated the letter he was about to write, I did not see how I could refuse him; so after receiving such credentials as he himself carried, and getting full instructions how to proceed, I left him writing at Philemon’s table and hastened down the hall to the door he had pointed out.  If Providence had been on the side of guilt, the circumstances could not have been more favourable for the deception I afterwards played.  No one was in the hall, no one was with Mr. Orr to note that it was I instead