“James Barron living now?” cried Stratton excitedly. “Thank Heaven!”

But as the words left his lips his whole manner changed. His face had lighted up at Brettison’s announcement, for the knowledge that he was not answerable for the convict’s death—that he had not slain the husband of the woman he loved—was a tremendous weight, which had crushed him down, suddenly removed; but, like a sudden, scathing flash, came the horror of Myra’s position once more.

There was no selfishness in the feeling; his thoughts were solely of and for her. That man still lived, and she was his wife—tied to an escaped convict, and at his mercy, unless Brettison had done his duty and handed him over to the authorities. But with his sympathetic feeling for her, there came over him a sense of overwhelming despair at his own helpless position.

He passed his hand across his eyes, threw up his head, and seemed more like the old Malcolm Stratton, as he held out his hand to his friend, took that which was eagerly extended to him, and the two men sat, hand grasped in hand, silently for the space of some minutes.

Brettison was the first to speak.

“Then you think, in spite of all, I did wisely?”

“I think you saved that man’s life,” said Stratton with a faint, sad smile upon his lip. “But for you I must have gone to the grave with that knowledge always on my brain. You have spared me that. I can sleep without waking to think of that man’s blood being on my hands.”

“And there is hope for you yet,” whispered Brettison earnestly.

“Where?” said Stratton mournfully. “In the other world?”

“Bah! Despairing at your age? Why, man, this life is full of change and surprise. Nothing comes to pass so often as the unexpected.”

Stratton shook his head.

“What! Doubting, in the face of all I have told you just now? Why, man, my news must have come upon you like a miracle. Come, I shall see you and Myra happy yet.”

“Silence!” cried Stratton sternly. “Impossible! All that is past. Brettison, I accept my fate in all thankfulness for what I know. If Myra and I ever meet again, I can take her hand and look her calmly in the eyes. I know my position now; and, thank God, I am once more a man—free from the great horror of my life. Now, tell me. The man recovered from his wound?”

“Yes,” said Brettison, looking at Stratton curiously, “he is quite recovered from that; only much changed.”

“You have seen him lately, then?” cried Stratton eagerly.

“Yes; not many hours since.”

“Brettison!”

“Yes? Why do you start like that?”

“Then you have not handed him over to the authorities?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Man, you ask me that? You leave him free to go yonder and make her life a burden?”

“I did not say so,” replied Brettison calmly. “Suppose I had handed the man over to the authorities, what then? The news would have been in every paper of the convict’s marvellous escape from death. Pleasant reading for the Bourne Square breakfast table. Surely that poor girl has suffered enough?”

Stratton gazed at him wildly.

“I thought it all out, and I said to myself: ‘James Dale, or Barron, died that night to the world, when he escaped from the convict prison. Why should I bring him to life? For everyone’s sake, let him be dead still.’”

“Impossible!” cried Stratton. “The man will take ............