ders to be good and sufficient cause. I don't believe you
want me at your dinner-table."

His smile was as refreshing as a cool breeze on a hot summer day.

"I don't care what Mr. Haddon has said or done to you. If you can't
give any better reason than that----"

"But I can," I interposed. "I am a paroled convict."

Without another word he opened the gate and drew me inside with an arm
linked in mine. And he didn't speak again until he had planted me in
the easiest of the big chairs before the grate fire in the cozy
sitting-room, and had found a couple of pipes, filling one for me and
the other for himself.

"Now, then, tell me all about it," he commanded, "You are having plenty
of trouble; your face says that much. Begin back a bit and let it lead
up to Mr. Zadoc Haddon as a climax, if you wish."

It had been so long since I had had a chance really to confide in
anybody that I unloaded it all; the whole bitter burden of it. Whitley
heard me through patiently, and when I was done, put his finger on the
single omission in the story.

"You haven't told me whether you did or did not use the bank's money
for your own account in the mining speculation," he said.

I shook my head. "I have learned by hard experience not to say much
about that part of it."

"Why?" he asked.

"If you knew convicts you wouldn't ask. They will all tell you that
they were innocent of the crimes for which they were sentenced."

He smoked in silence for a minute or two and then said: "You are not a
criminal, Weyburn."

"I am not far from it at the present time--whatever I was in the
beginning."

Another silence, and then: "It seems incredible to me that you, or any
man in your situation, should find the world so hard-hearted. It isn't
hard-hearted as a whole, you know; on the contrary, it is kind and
helpful and charitable to a degree that you'd never suspect until you
appeal to it. I know, because I am appealing to it every day."

Again I shook my head.

"It draws a line in its charity; and the ex-convict is on the wrong
side of that line." I was going on to say more, but at that moment a
white-haired old negro in a spotless serving jacket came to the door to
say that dinner was ready, and we went together to the tiny dining-room
in the rear.

At dinner, which was the most appetizing meal I had sat down to in many
a long day, Whitley told me more about himself, sparing me, as I made
sure, the necessity of further talk