illiam Cass, at A B C, East Fourteenth Street, New
York, at 3:30 p.m., on June 12. So far as guilt or innocence was
concerned there was nothing left to discover; the connection between
these two men was demonstrated. Farrell's misidentification established
another truth--they were brothers. The letter, hastening to its
destination, had contained the stolen money. Mortimer would not give it
to Cass to send away; even if he had done so he would not then have gone
to Gravesend. Alan Porter had also gone to Gravesend; if he had stolen
the money he would have taken it with him.

David Cass, the unsuspected, was the thief. Mortimer, condemned,
having restored the money--having taken upon himself with almost silent
resignation the disgrace--was innocent. And all this knowledge was in
Crane's possession alone, to use as he wished. The fate of his rival was
given into his hands; and if he turned down his thumb, so, better for
Mortimer that he had been torn of wild beasts in a Roman arena than to
be cast, good name and all, to the wolves of righteous humanity.

As a dog carries home a bone too large for immediate consumption, Crane
took back this new finding to his den of solitude in New York. At eight
o'clock he turned the key in his door, and arm in arm with his now
constant companion walked fitfully up and down, up and down, the floor.
Sometimes he sat in a big chair that beckoned to him to rest; sometimes
he raced with swift speed; once he threw himself upon his bed, and lay
staring wide-eyed at the ceiling for hours. What mockery--hours! on the
mantelpiece the clock told him that he had ceased his strides for a bare
five minutes.

Then he thrust himself back into a chair, and across the table opposite
sat Wrong, huge--grinning with a devilish temptation; not gold, but a
perfume of lilacs, and the music of soft laughter like the tinkle of
silver bells, the bejeweled light of sweet eyes that were gray, and all
the temptation that Wrong held in itself was the possession of Allis
Porter.

And Crane need commit no crime, unless inaction were a crime--just leave
things as they were. In the eyes of the world Mortimer was a thief; he
would never claim Allis so branded.

Crane with a word could clear the accused man; he could go to David Cass
and force him to confess. But why should he do it--sacrifice all he held
dear in life? Everything that he had valued before became obliterated
by the blindness of his love for the girl. Yet