he best judge of her own feelings?"

"Miss Dundas would have married me but for the return of your scapegrace
son," cried Ormsby, flashing out. "He has seen her, and has upset all my
plans."

"Yes, he has seen her--" The words slipped out before the clergyman knew
what he was saying.

"Ah, he has seen her," cried Ormsby, sharply. "So, he's either at
Asherton Hall--or here."

"I--I didn't say that!" gasped the rector. "This house is mine--you have
no right--Dear, dear, I don't know what I'm doing, or what I'm saying."

"You have said enough, Mr. Swinton. Your son is in this house. I have
him, at last."

"My son is ill, Mr. Ormsby. You must give him time. This dreadful matter
may yet be set right."

"It is in the hands of the police. Good-day."

John Swinton was powerless to say a word in his son's defense. He led
Ormsby from the room and out of the house, without another word of
protest. On his return, he sank down in his writing-chair, groaning and
weeping.

"Oh, what have I said! What have I done! I've doubly betrayed him. Nobody
can help him now, unless--unless--"

He clasped his hands upon the desk as if in prayer, looking upward. He
saw his way, clear and defined. Even as Abraham offered up his son at the
call of God, so he must deliver up his guilty wife, and cry aloud his own
sin. Ay, from the pulpit. It would be the last time his voice would ever
be raised in the house of God. His congregation would know him for a
sinner, a liar, a coward. He had remained silent when scandalous tongues
were busy defaming his son's reputation; and not a word of protest had
fallen from his lips. He had gone to the pulpit, and, with an expectant
hush in the church, they had waited for him to speak of his dead son who
had died gloriously--and no word had passed his lips, because only one
declaration was possible. Either he must deny the foul slander, or by his
silence give impetus to the rumor of guilt. The hue and cry had been
openly raised for his son, and he had done nothing. The devil had
demanded Dick, even as God demanded Isaac. And the traitorous priest had
been under the spell of a woman. It was hard to deliver up to man's
justice the wife of his bosom. It was no longer a choice of two evils; it
was an issue between God and himself.

He prayed for strength that he might be able to go out of the house
now--before his wife returned--and declare her guilt to the police and
his own condonation of it; after that, to