ll walk leisurely
to the station; we can get a train"--he pulled out his watch--"in twenty
minutes."

Crane had made up his mind not to show himself at the bank that day. He
wished to bold his discovery quite close within himself--plan his
course of action with habitual caution. It meant no increased aggression
against Mortimer's liberty; it was of value only in his pursuit of Allis
Porter.

As they walked slowly toward the station Crane met abruptly the girl
who was just then so much in his thoughts. Her sudden appearance quite
startled him, though it was quite accidental. She had gone in to do some
shopping, she explained, after Crane's greeting.

Farrell continued on when his companion stopped. A sudden determination
to tell the girl what he had unearthed took quick possession of Crane.
His fine sense of reasoning told him that though she professed positive
faith in Mortimer, she must have moments of wavering; it seemed only
human. Perhaps his presiding deity had put this new weapon in his hands
to turn the battle. He began by assuring her that he had prosecuted the
inquiry simply through a desire to establish the innocence of either
Mortimer or her brother, or, if possible, both.

"You understand," he said, quite simply, "that Alan is like a brother--"
he was going to say "son," but it struck him as being unadvisable,
it aged him. He related how he had traced the stolen note, how he had
discovered it, how he had brought the bookmaker down, and how, without
guidance from him, Farrell had gone into the bank and identified
Mortimer as the man who had betted the money.

"It clears Alan," he said, seeking furtively for a look into the
drooping face.

The bright sun struck a sparkle of light from something that shot
downward and splashed in the dust. The girl was crying.

"I'm sorry," he offered as atonement. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told
you; it's too brutal."

The head drooped still lower.

"I shouldn't have spoken had it not been for your brother's sake. I
didn't mean to. It was chance drew you across my path just now. Though
it is cruel, it is better that you should know. No man has a right to
deceive you, you are too good. It is this very constancy and goodness
that has taught me to love you."

"Don't," she pleaded; "I can't bear it just now. Please don't talk of
love, don't talk of anything. Can't you see--can't you understand?"

"Yes, I know--you are suffering, but it is unjust; you are not fair to