Had the earth opened under him he could not have been more
astounded. Garry Minott a defaulter! Garry a thief! Everything seemed
to whirl about him--only the woman remained quiet--still standing--her
calm, impassive eyes fixed on his bowed head; her dry, withering,
soulless words still vibrating in the hushed room.

"When did this happen, Corinne--this--this taking of Mr. McGowan's
money?" The words came between his closed fingers, as if he, too, would
shut out some horrible shape.

"Some two weeks ago."

"When did you know of it?"

"Night before last, after you left him. I knew he was in trouble, but
I did not know it was as bad as this. If Mr. Breen had helped me
everything would have been all right, for Garry sold out all the stock
he had in the Warehouse Company, and this ten thousand dollars is all he
owes." She shivered as she spoke, and her pale, tired eyes closed as if
in pain. Nothing was said between them for a while, and neither of them
stirred. During the silence the front door was heard to open, letting in
the village doctor, who mounted the stairs, his footfalls reverberating
in Garry's room overhead.

Jack raised his eyes at last and studied her closely. The frail body
seemed more crumpled and forlorn in the depths of the chair, where she
had sunk, than when she had been standing before him. The blonde hair,
always so glossy, was dry as hemp; the small, upturned nose, once
so piquant and saucy, was thin and pinched--almost transparent; the
washed-out, colorless eyes, which in her girlhood had flashed and
sparkled so roguishly, were half hidden under swollen lids. The arms
were flat, the hands like bird claws. The white heat of a furnace of
agony had shrivelled her poor body, drying up all the juices of its
youth.

And yet with the scorching there had crept into the wan face, and into
the tones of her tired, heart-broken voice something Jack had never
found in her as a girl--something of tenderness, unselfishness--of
self-sacrifice for another and with it there flamed up in his own heart
a determination to help--to wipe out everything--to sponge the record,
to reestablish the man who in a moment of agony had given way to an
overpowering temptation and brought his wife to this condition. A
lump rose in his throat, and a look of his old father shone out of his
face--that look with which in the years gone by he had defied jury,
district attorney, and public opinion for what he considered mercy. And
me