ing helplessness settled down upon her. It seemed
to her that she could even hear the bell of St. Botolph's, calling the
congregation to listen to the confession which her husband would surely
make.

On reaching the rectory, she bade the chauffeur wait, and then entered
the house with faltering steps. She found Netty just ready to go out.

"Where is your father, Netty?" Mrs. Swinton demanded.

"Gone to the church, mother. He seems very strange."

"Did he leave no message?"

"No, but Mr. Barnby was here a few moments ago, and Mr. Barnby saw the
police officers; and they went away, after he showed them a letter from
grandfather, absolving Dick from all blame about the checks."

"Did he show your father the letter?"

"Yes."

"What happened then?"

"He crushed it in his hand, and cried 'Lies! lies! all lies!' and went
out of the house, muttering and staring before him, like a man walking in
his sleep."

"Netty, you must take a message to your father," Mrs. Swinton directed.
"You must come with me in the automobile. Then, you must take my note
into the vestry, and see that he gets it at once, before service. There
will be plenty of time." Her voice was hoarse with fear.

She dragged off her gloves, and entered her husband's study, the scene of
so many painful interviews, and yet of so many pleasant hours, during
twenty-five years of married life. On a piece of sermon paper, the first
that came to hand, and with trembling fingers, she scrawled a last, wild
appeal, which also conveyed the information that her father was dead.

"This must be given into your father's hand, and he must read it before
he goes into the pulpit, Netty, or we are all ruined. Your grandfather is
dead--you understand?"

"Dead--at last!"

The joyous exclamation from the girl's lips jarred horribly. Yet, it was
only an echo of her own old, oft-repeated lament at the length of the
miser's life.

"Let him write me a reply, for you to bring back."

Netty took the letter, and then followed her mother to the automobile,
which was driven rapidly to St. Botolph's. But, at the church, Mrs.
Swinton had not the courage to enter. Instead, when she had hurried Netty
toward the vestry, she approached a side window, where one of the panels
stood open, and peered within, stealthily. At once, she perceived her
husband by the lectern. He was calm and pale, droning out the service
with unusual lassitude. The church was crammed. It was a vast edifice,
a