laid the papers away in the tin box in a
drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket? He had found to the
smallest detail Billy's iniquity, and he was now ready to shoulder the
responsibility, to save the man, who, he knew, was scarce worth the
saving. But Kathleen--there was what gave him pause. As he turned to the
window and looked out over the square he shuddered. He thought of the
exchange of documents he had made with her that day, and he had a sense
of satisfaction. This defalcation of Billy's would cripple him, for
money had flown these last few years. He had had heavy losses, and he
had dug deep into his capital. Down past the square ran a cool avenue of
beeches to the water, and he could see his yacht at anchor. On the other
side of the water, far down the shore, was a house which had been begun
as a summer cottage, and had ended in being a mansion. A few Moorish
pillars, brought from Algiers for the decoration of the entrance,
had necessitated the raising of the roof, and then all had to be in
proportion, and the cottage became like an appanage to a palace. So
it had gone, and he had cared so little about it all, and for the
consequences. He had this day secured Kathleen from absolute poverty, no
matter what happened, and that had its comfort. His eyes wandered among
the trees. He could see the yellow feathers of the oriole and catch the
note of the whippoorwill, and from the great church near the voices of
the choir came over. He could hear the words "Lord, now lettest thou thy
servant depart in peace, according to thy word."

Depart in peace--how much peace was there in the world? Who had it? The
remembrance of what Kathleen said to him at the door--"I suppose I ought
to kiss you"--came to him, was like a refrain in his ears.

"Peace is the penalty of silence and inaction," he said to himself
meditatively. "Where there is action there is no peace. If the brain and
body fatten, then there is peace. Kathleen and I have lived at peace, I
suppose. I never said a word to her that mightn't be put down in large
type and pasted on my tombstone, and she never said a word to me--till
to-day--that wasn't like a water-colour picture. Not till to-day, in a
moment's strife and trouble, did I ever get near her. And we've lived
in peace. Peace? Where is the right kind of peace? Over there is old
Sainton. He married a rich woman, he has had the platter of plenty
before him always, he wears ribbons and such like baubles