t until some
days afterward that I realized what my going meant to me. You see, I
had left behind me, in his housekeeper, the woman I loved--and had
insulted past forgiveness. I was branded as his murderer. Do you see?
She loved him, and was his housekeeper. Oh, there was nothing wrong in
it! I knew that. His baby girl was the child of his dead wife. Several
times I thought of returning to establish my innocence, but somehow my
conduct and my story wouldn't have fitted in the eyes of a jury.
Besides, there was that insulted woman. She had accused me of the
murder. It was quite useless to go back. It meant throwing away my
life. It was not worth it. So I came here."

Buck offered no comment for a long time. Comment seemed unnecessary.
The Padre watched him with eyes striving to conceal their anxiety.

Finally, Buck put a question that seemed unnecessary.

"Why d'you tell me now?" he asked. His pipe had gone out and he pushed
it into his hip-pocket.

The Padre's smile was rather drawn.

"Because of you. Because of my friend's--baby girl."

"How?"

"The child's name was Joan. Joan Rest is the daughter of Charles
Stanmore--the man I am accused of murdering. This afternoon I advised
her to have some one to live with her--a relative. She is sending for
the only one she has. It is her aunt, Stanmore's housekeeper--the
woman I insulted past forgiveness."

Not for an instant did Buck's expression change.

"Why did you advise--that?" he asked.

The Padre's eyes suddenly lit with a subdued fire, and his answer came
with a passion such as Buck had never witnessed in him before.

"Why? Why? Because you love this little Joan, daughter of my greatest
friend. Because I owe it to you--to her--to face my accusers and prove
my innocence."

The two men looked long and earnestly into each other's eyes. Then the
Padre's voice, sharp and strident, sounded through the little room.

"Well?"

Buck rose from his seat.

"Let's eat, Padre," he said calmly. "I'm mighty hungry." Then he came
a step nearer and gripped the elder man's hand. "I'm right with you,
when things--get busy."

CHAPTER XXIV

BEASLEY PLAYS THE GAME

Joan lost no time in carrying out the Padre's wishes. Such was her
changed mood, such was the strength of her new-born hope, such was the
wonderful healing his words had administered to her young mind, that,
for the time at least, her every cloud was dispersed, lost in a
perfect sheen of mental calm.