neck in mute comfort of a grief of which
she only understood the half--for of the heavier and more desperate
part of his guilt she was still in ignorance. Sylvia spoke to him kindly
words of encouragement where no encouragement could avail. But what
moved him most was the touch of Tremayne's hand upon his shoulder, and
Tremayne's voice bidding him brace himself to face the situation and
count upon them to stand by him to the end.

He looked up at his friend and secretary in an amazement that overcame
his shame.

"You can forgive me, Ned?"

Ned looked across at Sylvia Armytage. "You have been the means of
bringing me to such happiness as I should never have reached without
these happenings," he said. "What resentment can I bear you, O'Moy?
Besides, I understand, and who understands can never do anything but
forgive. I realise how sorely you have been tried. No evidence more
conclusive that you were being wronged could have been placed before
you."

"But the court-martial," said O'Moy in horror. He covered his face with
his hand. "Oh, my God! I am dishonoured. I--I--" He rose, shaking
off the arm of his wife and the hand of the friend he had wronged so
terribly. He broke away from them and strode to the window, his face set
and white. "I think I was mad;" he said. "I know I was mad. But to have
done what I did--" He shuddered in very horror of himself now that he
was bereft of the support of that evil jealousy that had fortified
him against conscience itself and the very voice of honour. Lady O'Moy
turned to them, pleading for explanation.

"What does he mean? What has he done?"

Himself he answered her: "I killed Samoval. It was I who fought that
duel. And then believing what I did, I fastened the guilt upon Ned, and
went the lengths of perjury in my blind effort to avenge myself. That
is what I have done. Tell me, one of you, of your charity, what is there
left for me to do?"

"Oh!" It was an outcry of horror and indignation from Una, instantly
repressed by the tightening grip of Sylvia's hand upon her arm. Miss
Armytage saw and understood, and sorrowed for Sir Terence. She must
restrain his wife from adding to his present anguish. Yet, "How could
you, Terence! Oh, how could you!" cried her ladyship, and so gave way to
tears, easier than words to express such natures.

"Because I loved you, I suppose," he answered on a note of bitter
self-mockery. "That was the justification I should have given had I been
as