Don't undeceive her; keep up the delusion." But Thomas Carr was not so
apt at keeping up delusions at the expense of truth, and he only smiled
in reply.

"What damages are they suing for?"

"Oh," said Mr. Carr, with a laugh, and ready enough now: "ten thousand
pounds will cover it."

"Ten thousand pounds!" she echoed. "Of course they won't get half of it.
In this sort of action--breach of promise--parties never get so much as
they ask for, do they?"

"Not often."

She laughed a little as she quitted the room. It was difficult to remain
longer, and it never occurred to her to suspect that any graver matter
than this action was in question.

"Now, Carr?" began Lord Hartledon, seating himself near the table as he
closed the door after her, and speaking in low tones.

"I received this letter by the afternoon mail," said Mr. Carr, taking one
from the safe enclosure of his pocket-book. "It is satisfactory, so far
as it goes."

"I call it very satisfactory," returned Hartledon, glancing through it.
"I thought he'd listen to reason. What is done cannot be undone, and
exposure will answer no end. I wrote him an urgent letter the other day,
begging him to be silent for Maude's sake. Were I to expiate the past
with my life, it could not undo it. If he brought me to the bar of my
country to plead guilty or not guilty, the past would remain the same."

"And I put the matter to him in my letter somewhat in the same light,
though in a more business-like point of view," returned Mr. Carr. "There
was no entreaty in mine. I left compassion, whether for you or others,
out of the argument; and said to him, what will you gain by exposure, and
how will you reconcile it to your conscience to inflict on innocent
persons the torture exposure must bring?"

"I shall breathe freely now," said Hartledon, with a sigh of relief."
If that man gives his word not to stir in the matter, not to take
proceedings against me; in short, to bury what he knows in secrecy and
silence, as he has hitherto done; it will be all I can hope for."

Mr. Carr lifted his eyebrows.

"I perceive what you think: that the fact remains. Carr, I know it as
well as you; I know that _nothing_ can alter it. Don't you see that
remorse is ever present with me? driving me mad? killing me by inches
with its pain?"

"Do you know what I should be tempted to do, were the case mine?"

"Well?"

"Tell my wife."

"Carr!"

"I almost think I should; I am not quite sure.