d confronted her, not a trial in
court.

"Martha has a brother," she said at last, "who has a business of some
kind, and who might help. If you will bring her to me, she can find
him."

"You don't remember what his business is?" he continued.

"I think it is something to do with fitting out ships. He was once a
mate on one of my father's vessels and--"

She stopped abruptly, frightened now at her own indiscretion. She had
been wrong in wanting to send for Stephen, even in referring to him.
Whatever befell her, she was determined that her people at home should
not suffer further on her account.

Father Cruse had caught the look, and his heart gave a bound, though
no gesture betrayed him. "You have not told me your name," he said
simply--as if it were a matter of routine in cases like hers.

She glanced at him quickly. "Does it make any difference?"

"It might. I do not believe you are a criminal, but if I am to help you
as I want to do, I must know the truth."

She thought for a moment. Here was something she could not escape. The
assumed name had so far shielded her. She would brave it out as she had
done before.

"They call me Mrs. Stanton."

"Is that your true name?"

The Carnavons were imperious, unforgiving, and sometimes brutal. Many
of them had been roues, gamblers, and spendthrifts, but none of them had
ever been a liar.

"No!" she answered firmly.

Father Cruse settled back in his seat. The ring of sincerity in the
woman's "No" had removed his last doubt. "You do very wrong, my good
woman, not to tell me the whole truth," he remarked, with some
emphasis. "I am a priest, as you see, and attached to the Church of St.
Barnabas--not far from here. I visit this station-house almost every
morning, seeing what I can do to help people just like yourself. I will
go to Rosenthal, and then I will find your old nurse, and I will try to
have your case delayed until your nurse can get hold of her brother. But
that is really all I can do until I have your entire confidence. I am
convinced that you are a woman who has been well brought up, and that
this is your first experience in a place of this kind. I hope it will be
the last; I hope, too, that the charge made against you will be proved
false. But does not all this make you realize that you should be frank
with me?"

She drew herself up with a certain dignity infinitely pathetic, yet in
which, like the flavor of some old wine left in a drained glass, there