no more. His abject mien fell
from him like a garment. "Did I not say it was a lie?" he muttered,
fiercely. "Greta, I am ashamed," he said; "your courage disgraces me.
See what a pitiful coward you have taken for your husband. You have
witnessed a strange weakness. But it has been for the last time. Thank
God, I am now the man of yesterday!"

Her tears were rolling down her cheeks, but her eyes were very bright.
"What do you wish me to do?" she whispered. "Is it not something for me
to do?"

"It is, darling. You said rightly that the thought of one is the thought
of both."

"What is it?"

"A terrible thing!"

"No matter. I am here to do it. What?"

"It is to part from me to-night--only for to-night--only until
to-morrow."

Greta's face broke into a perfect sunshine of beauty. "Is that all?" she
asked.

"My darling!" said Paul, and embraced her fervently and kissed the
quivering lips, "I am leading you through dark vaults, where you can see
no single step before you."

"But I am holding your hand, my husband," Greta whispered.

Speech was too weak for that great moment. Again the heart-breaking sobs
fell on the silence. Then Paul drew a cloak over Greta's shoulders and
buttoned up his ulster. "It is a little after midnight," he said with
composure. "There is a fly at the door. We may catch the last train up
to London. I have a nest for you there, my darling."

Then he went out into the bar. "Landlady," he said, "I will come back
to-morrow for our luggage. Meantime, let it lie here, if it won't be in
your way. We've kept you up late, old lady. Here, take this--and thank
you."

"Thankee! and the boxes are quite safe, sir--thankee!"

He threw open the door to the road, and hailed the driver of the fly,
cheerily. "Cold, sleety night, my good fellow. You'll have a sharp
drive."

"Yes, sir; it air cold waiting, very, specially inside, sir, just for
want of summat short."

"Well, come in quick and get it, my lad."

"Right, sir."

When Paul returned to the room to call Greta, he found her examining
papers. She had picked them up off the table. They were the copies of
certificates which Hugh Ritson had left there. Paul had forgotten them
during the painful interview. He tried to recover them unread, but he
was too late.

"This," she said, holding out one of them, "is not the certificate of
your birth. This person, Paul Lowther, is no doubt my father's lost
son."

"No doubt," said Paul, dropping his h