Granger lifted a half-surprised look to Mr. Dinneford's face.

"Thank you," he replied, after a few moments' thought. "I shall never
forget your kindness, but I prefer remaining here for a few days, until
I can confer with my friends and make some decision as to the future."

Granger's manner grew reserved, almost embarrassed. Mr. Dinneford was
not wrong in his impression of the cause. How could he help thinking of
Edith, who, turning against him with the rest, had accepted the theory
of guilt and pronounced her sentence upon him, hardest of all to bear?
So it appeared to him, for he had nothing but the hard fact before him
that she had applied for and obtained a divorce.

Yes, it was the thought of Edith that drew Granger back and covered him
with reserve. What more could Mr. Dinneford say? He had not considered
all the hearings of this unhappy case; but now that he remembered the
divorce, he began to see, how full of embarrassment it was, and how
delicate the relation he bore to this unhappy victim of his wife's
dreadful crime.

What could he say for Edith? Nothing! He knew that her heart had never
turned itself away from this man, though she had, under a pressure she
was not strong enough to resist, turned her back upon him and cast aside
his dishonored name, thus testifying to the world that she believed him
base and criminal. If he should speak of her, would not the young man
answer with indignant scorn?

"Give me the address of your friends, and I will call upon them
immediately," said Mr. Dinneford, replying, after a long silence, to
Granger's last remark. "I am here to repair, to any extent that in me
lies the frightful wrongs you have suffered. I shall make your cause my
own, and never rest until every false tarnish shall be wiped from your
name. In honor and conscience I am bound to this."

Looking at the young man intently, he saw a grateful response in the
warmer color that broke into his face and in the moisture that filled
his eyes.

"I would be base if I were not thankful, Mr. Dinneford," Granger
replied. "But you cannot put yourself in my place, cannot know what I
have suffered, cannot comprehend the sense of wrong and cruel rejection
that has filled my soul with the very gall of bitterness. To be cast out
utterly, suddenly and without warning from heaven into hell, and for no
evil thought or act! Ah, sir! you do not understand."

"It was a frightful ordeal, George," answered Mr. Dinneford, layin