oore, that he almost persuaded himself that it had
been only a dream--a pleasant dream, with a disagreeable awakening.
When she had left him he had tried to forget her, recognising how
unworthy she was of a good man's love. He heard that she had died in a
London hospital, and with a passionate sigh for a perished love, he had
dismissed her from his thoughts for ever. His second marriage had
turned out a happy one, and he regretted the death of his wife deeply.
Afterwards, all his love centred in his daughter, and he thought he
would be able to spend his declining years in peace. This, however, was
not to be, and he was thunderstruck when Whyte arrived from England
with the information that his first wife still lived, and that the
daughter of his second was illegitimate. Sooner than risk exposure,
Frettlby agreed to anything; but Whyte's demands became too exorbitant,
and he refused to comply with them. On Whyte's death he again breathed
freely, when suddenly a second possessor of his fatal secret started up
in the person of Roger Moreland. As the murder of Duncan had to be
followed by that of Banquo, in order to render Macbeth safe, so he
foresaw that while Roger Moreland lived his life would be one long
misery. He knew that the friend of the murdered man would be his
master, and would never leave him during his life, while after his
death he would probably publish the whole ghastly story, and defame the
memory of the widely-respected Mark Frettlby. What is it that
Shakespeare says?--

"Good name in man or woman
Is the immediate jewel of their souls."

And after all these years of spotless living and generous use of his
wealth, was he to be dragged down to the depths of infamy and
degradation by a man like Moreland? Already, in fancy, he heard the
jeering cries of his fellow-men, and saw the finger of scorn point at
him--he, the great Mark Frettlby, famous throughout Australia for his
honesty, integrity, and generosity. No, it could not be, and yet this
would surely happen unless he took means to prevent it.

The day after he had seen Moreland, and knew that his secret was no
longer safe, since it was in the power of a man who might reveal it at
any moment in a drunken fit, or out of sheer maliciousness, he sat at
his desk writing. After a time he laid down his pen, and taking up a
portrait of hic dead wife which stood just in front of him, he stared
at it long and earnestly As he did so, his mind went back to