sinless. You wish to repent--to
atone for the past. It is my duty to assist you." And he put out his
strong hand frankly.

His host drew back. But next instant he grasped it, and in doing so
burst into tears.

"I make no excuse for myself," he faltered. "I am a blackguard, and
unworthy the friendship of a true honest man like yourself,
Shuttleworth. But I love my darling child. She is all that has
remained to me, and I want to leave her in the care of a good woman.
She must forget me--forget what her father was----"

"Enough!" cried the other, holding up his hand; and then, until far
into the night, the two men sat talking in low, solemn tones,
discussing the future, while the attitude of Philip Poland, as he sat
pale and motionless, his hands clasped upon his knees, was one of deep
repentance.

That same night, if the repentant transgressor could but have seen
Edmund Shuttleworth, an hour later, pacing the rectory study; if he
could have witnessed the expression of fierce, murderous hatred upon
that usually calm and kindly countenance; if he could have overheard
the strangely bitter words which escaped the dry lips of the man in
whom he had confided his secret, he would have been held
aghast--aghast at the amazing truth, a truth of which he had never
dreamed.

His confession had produced a complication unheard of, undreamed of,
so cleverly had the rector kept his countenance and controlled his
voice. But when alone he gave full vent to his anger, and laughed
aloud in the contemplation of a terrible vengeance which, he declared
aloud to himself, should be his.

"That voice!" he cried in triumph. "Why did I not recognize it before?
But I know the truth now--I know the amazing truth!"

And he laughed harshly to himself as he paced his room.

Next day Philip Poland spent in his garden, reading beneath the big
yew, as was his wont. But his thoughts ever wandered from his book, as
he grew apprehensive of the evil his enemy was about to hurl upon him.
His defiance, he knew, must cost him his liberty--his life. Yet he was
determined. For Sonia's sake he had become a changed man.

At noon Shuttleworth, calm and pleasant, came across the lawn with
outstretched hand. He uttered low words of encouragement and comfort.
He said that poor Mrs. Dixon had passed away, and later on he left to
attend to his work in the parish. After luncheon, served by the silent
Felix, Poland retired to his study with the newspaper, and sat