ooking for a way of escape, or like a dog that
has lost its master. He tried every method known to him to gain
information of her directly or indirectly, but Mr. Dundas, ignorant
himself, had only to guard that ignorance from breaking out. As for
knowledge, he could not give what he did not possess, and the terrible
thing that he did know he was not likely to let appear.

One day when the poor fellow broke down, as was not unusual with him
when asking about Leam--and Mr. Dundas read him like a book, all save
that one black page where the beloved name stood inscribed in letters of
his own heart's blood between the words "crime" and "murder"--with a
woman's liking for saying pleasant things which soothed those who heard
them, and did no hurt to those who said them save for the insignificant
manner in which falsehood hurts the soul, Sebastian, laying his hand
kindly on the poor fellow's angular shoulder, said, "I am sorry to know
as much as I do, Alick. There is no one to whom I would have given her
so readily as to you, my dear boy. Indeed, it was always one of my hopes
for the future, poor misguided child! and I can see that it was yours
too. Ah, how I grieve that it is impossible!"

"Why impossible?" asked Alick, who had the faculty of faith, his pale
face flushing.

Mr. Dundas turned white. A look not so much of pain as of abhorrence
came into his face. "Impossible!" he said vehemently. "I would not curse
my greatest enemy with my daughter's hand."

Alick felt his blood run cold. What did he mean? Did he know all, or was
he speaking only with the angry feeling of a man who had been
disappointed and annoyed? There was a short pause. Then said Alick,
looking straight into Sebastian's eyes and speaking very slowly, but
with not too much emphasis, "I would hold myself blessed with her as my
wife had she even committed murder."

Mr. Dundas started perceptibly. "Oh," he answered after a moment's
hesitation, with a forced and sickly kind of smile, "a silly girl's
wrong-headedness does not reach quite so far as that. She has done
wrong, miserably wrong, but between withdrawing herself from her
father's house and committing such a crime as murder there is rather a
wide difference. All the same, I am disgraced by her folly," angrily,
"and I will not let any one--not even you, Alick--know where she is."

"That is cruel to those who love her," pleaded Alick, his eyes filling
with tears.

"If cruel it is necessary," said Mr