se you have found out my original reason for giving you a fresh
start in life, and you resent my having kept it a secret."

"I resent the reason." West tossed the words over his shoulder as though
he uttered them against his will.

"Are you sure even now that you know what that reason was?" Babbacombe
asked.

"I am sure of one thing!" West spoke quickly, vehemently, as a man
shaken by some inner storm. "Had I been in your place--had the woman I
wanted to marry asked me to bring back into her life some worthless
scamp to whom she had taken a sentimental fancy when she was scarcely
out of the schoolroom, I'd have seen him damned first, and myself
too--had I been in your place. I would have refused pointblank, even if
it had meant the end of everything."

"I believe you would," Babbacombe said. The sternness had gone out of
his voice, and a certain weariness had taken its place. "But you haven't
quite hit the truth of the matter. Since you have guessed so much you
had better know the whole. I did not do this thing by request. I
undertook it voluntarily. If I had not done so, some other
means--possibly some less discreet means--would have been employed to
gain the same end."

"I see!" West's head was bent. He seemed to be closely examining the
marble on which his arms rested. "Well," he said abruptly, "you've told
me the truth. I will do the same to you. This business has got to end. I
have done my part towards bringing that about. And now you must do
yours. You will have to prosecute, whether you like it or not. It is the
only way."

"What?" Babbacombe said sharply.

West turned at last. The glare had gone out of his eyes--they were cold
and still as an Arctic sky.

"I think we understand one another," he said. "I see you don't like your
job. But you'll stick to it, for all that. There must be an end--a
painless end if possible, without regrets. She has got to realise that
I'm a swindler to the marrow of my bones, that I couldn't turn to and
lead a decent, honourable life--even for love of her."

The words fell grimly, but there was no mockery in the steely eyes, no
feeling of any sort. They looked full at Babbacombe with unflickering
steadiness, that was all.

Babbacombe listened in the silence of a great amazement. Vaguely he had
groped after the truth, but he had never even dimly imagined this. It
struck him dumb--this sudden glimpse of a man's heart which till that
moment had been so strenuously hidden fro