n the distance? Only the haze
separates it from the blue sky. Look down where I am pointing, Edith.
It was there by the side of the road that I first looked into the garden
and saw you."

"It was not you who looked," she objected, shaking her head. "It was
the other man."

"What part is it that survives?" he asked, a little bitterly. "Why
should the new man be cursed with memory? Don't you think that even
then there must have been two of me, one struggling against the
other--one seeking for the big things, one laying hold of the lower? We
are all like that, Edith! Even now I sometimes feel the tug, although
it leads in other directions."

"To Garden Green?" she murmured.

"Never that," he answered fiercely, "and you know it. There are lower
heights, though, in the most cultured of lives. There are moments of
madness, moments that carry one off one's feet, which come alike to the
slave and his master. Dear Edith, up here one can talk. It is such a
beautiful world. One can open one's eyes, one can breathe, one can look
around him. It is the joy of simple things, the real true joy of life
which beats in our veins. Do you think that we were made for
unhappiness in such a world, Edith?"

"No!" she whispered, faintly.

"There isn't anything so beautiful to me upon God's earth," he
continued, "as the love in my heart for you. I wanted to tell you so
this evening. I have brought you here to tell you so--to this
particular spot. Something tells me that it may be almost our last
chance. I left those two whispering upon the lawn. What is it they are
planning, I wonder? That man Bomford is no companion for your father.
He has given him an idea about me and my story. What is it, I wonder?
To rob me, to throw me out, to take my treasure from me by force?"

"You are my father's guest," she reminded him softly. "He will not
forget it."

"There are greater things in the world," he went on, "than the
obligations of hospitality. There are tides which sweep away the
landmarks of nature herself. Your father is thirsty for knowledge.
This man Bomford is his friend. There have been more crimes committed
in the world for lofty motives than one hears of."

He leaned a little forward. They could see the smoke curling up from
the house below, its gardens laid out like patchwork, the low house
itself covered with creepers.

"It was an idyll, that," he went on. "Bomford's trail is about the
place now, the trail of some poisonous creat