While Mortimer was still in the cashier's improvised inquisition room, Allis Porter came into the bank to arrange the payment of her father's note.

The sunshine seemed to come with her into the counting house that was all gloom. Her glorious success, the consequent improvement in her father, the power to pay off his indebtedness—all these had turned that day into a day of thankfulness. The happiness that was in her rippled her face into smiles. When the door creaked on its hinges as it swung open, she laughed. It was a thriftless old door, such as bachelors kept, she murmured. Her brother's face, gloomy behind the iron screen, tickled her fancy. “You're like a caged bear, Alan,” she cried, with a smile of impertinence; “I should hate to be shut up a day like this—no wonder you're cross, brother.”

“I'm busy,” he answered, curtly. “I'll see you after bank hours, Sis; I want to see you.”

“I've come to pay father's note, busy-man-of-importance,” she flung back, with the swagger of a capitalist.

“It's paid, Allis.”

“Paid! I thought—”

“Wait, I'll come out;” and opening a door in the rail, he passed around to the girl.

“Father's note is paid,” he resumed, “but there's fierce trouble over it. Crane left the money, three thousand dollars, with Mortimer, and he stole”—the boy's voice lowered to a hoarse whisper—“a thousand of it to bet at Gravesend.”

“That's not true, Alan; God knows it's not true. Mortimer wouldn't steal.”

“Yes, he did,” persisted the brother, “and he begged of me to take the blame. He said it would ruin him, but that Crane wouldn't do anything to me. He's a vile, sneaking thief, Allis!”

“Hush, Alan; don't say that. It's all some dreadful mistake. The money will be found somewhere.”

“It has been found; Mortimer put it back. Why should he replace the money if he had not stolen it?”

“Where is Mr. Mortimer, Alan?”

The boy pointed with his thumb to the door of the cashier's office. “Crane's in there, too. I hope Mortimer owns up. He can't do anything else; they caught him putting the money back.”

Allis remembered that she had seen Mortimer on the race course.

“Mr. Mortimer doesn't bet,” she said.

“Yes, he does; he did yesterday, anyway; and when he saw that I knew about it, he begged me to say nothing—practically admitted that he had taken the money, and was going to put it back.”

“Why should he tell you that, Alan?”

“I don't know, unless he feared it might be found out while he was away; or, perhaps he was so excited over winning a thousand dollars that he didn't know what he was saying. At any rate, he took it right enough, Allis, and you ought to cut him.”

“I shan't do that. He's innocent, I know he is—I don't care what they say. If he replaced the money, it was to shield the man who took it.” She was looking searchingly into her brother's eyes—not that she was accusing him of the theft, she was just searching for the truth.

“Do you mean it was to shield me—that I took it? No one could have taken the money except Mortimer or myself.”

“I don't know,” answered the girl, wearily; “it's all so terribly new; I only know that Mortimer did not steal it.”

While she was still speaking, the accused man came from the cashier's office, holding his head as erect as an Indian, not at all as a half-convicted felon should have slunk through the door; yet withal in his face was a look of troubled gravity.

When Mortimer saw Allis his face flushed, then went pale in an instant. He felt that she knew; he had seen her talking earnestly to her brother. Probably she, too, would think him a thief. He admitted to himself that the evidence was sufficient to destroy anyone's faith in his innocence, and he was helpless, quite helpless; he was limited to simple denial, unless he accused her brother; even had he been so disposed, there was nothing to back up a denunciation of the boy. He felt a twinge of pain over Alan's ingratitude; the latter must know that he had put his neck in a noose to save him. Now that one of them needs be dishonored, why did not Alan prove himself a man, a Porter—they were a hero breed—and accept the gage of equity. Even worse, Alan was shielding himself behind this terrible bulwark of circumstantial evidence which topped him, the innocent one, on every side.

As he resumed his place at his desk close to the brother and sister, Alan looked defiantly at him. He could see in the boy's eyes malignant detestation, a glimmer of triumph, as though he felt that Mortimer was irrevocably in the toils. The lad was like a strippling Judas; his attitude filled Mortimer with loathing. He stole a look into the girl's face. Would she, too, say with her, eyes, “Behold, here is Barabbas!”

A thrill of ecstatic comfort warmed his being. In Allis's eyes was the first touch of kindness he had known in this hour of trial; faith, and sorrow, and cheer, and love were all there, striving for mastery; no furtive weakening, no uncertain questioning, no remonstrance of reproval—nothing but just unlimited faith and love. If the boy's look had angered him, had caused him to waver, had made the self-sacrifice seem too great when repaid with ingratitude, all these thoughts vanished in an instant, obliterated by that one look of unalterable love. In the hour of darkness the girl stood by him, and he would also stand firm. She would believe in him, and his sacrifice would be as nothing. He had undertaken to avert the sorrow of dishonor from her, from her brother, from her parents, and he would continue to the end. He would tell no one on earth but his mother the full truth; she must know. Then with the faith of the two women he loved, still his, he could brave the judgment of all others. Perhaps not willingly in the first place would he have taken upon himself the brand of Barrabas, but out of good motive he had incurred it.

Mortimer heard the brother say, “I think you had better not,” then the girl's voice, clear and decisive, answering, “I will, I must.”

In anger Alan left his sister's side, and she, stepping up to the wicket, said, “Will you please come out for a minute, Mr. Mortimer, I want to speak with you.”

He passed around to her side. Crane and the cashier were still closeted in the latter's office.

“Let us go out into the sunshine,” Allis said. “Can you—will it make any difference?”

“I don't think it matters much,” he answered, despondently; “things are as bad as they can be, I suppose.”

He took it for granted that she knew everything; but he was possessed of no shame, no diffidence, no reserve; he was innocent, and her eyes had assured him that she knew it. As they passed through the door it creaked again on its dry hinges. Before she had laughed at the weird complaining; now it sounded like a moan of misery. Outside the village street was deserted; there was no one to listen.

“What is this dreadful thing all about?” and she laid her hand on his arm in a gesture of amity, of association. Her touch thrilled him; she had never gone that length in friendly demonstration before. He marveled at her generous faith. All but dishonored, the small, strong hand lifted him to a pedestal-her eyes deified him.

“A thousand dollars was stolen from the bank, and I am accused of taking it,” he answered, bitterly.

“You didn't, did you? I know you didn't, but I want to hear you say so.”

He looked full into the girl's eye, and answered with deliberate earnestness, “I did not steal the money.”

“Some one took it?”

“Yes.”

“And you know who it was?”

“I do not.”

“But you suspect some one?”

He did not answer.

“Did you put the money back?”

He nodded his head.

“To protect somebody's good name?”

“Because it had been in my charge. I can't talk about it,” he broke in, vehemently; “all I can say is, that I am innocent. If you believe that I don't care what they do. They'll be able to prove by circumstantial evidence that I took it,” he added, bitterly, “and nothing that I can say will make any difference. My mother won't believe me guilty, and, thank God, you don't; and I am not; God knows I am not. Beyond that I will say nothing; it is useless—worse than useless; it would be criminal—would only cast suspicion on others, perhaps innocent. I don't know what they'll do about it; the money has been repaid. They may arrest me as a felon—at any rate I shall be forced to leave the bank and go away. It won't make much difference.—I am as I was before, an honest man, and I shall find other openings. It's not half so hard as I thought it would be; I feared perhaps that you—”

She stopped him with an imploring gesture.

“Let me finish,” he said. “I must go back to the office. I thought that you might believe me a thief, and that would have been too much.”

“You cared for my poor opinion?” she asked. The quiver in her voice caused him to look into her face; he saw the gray eyes shrouded in tears. He was a queer thief, trembling with joy because of his sin.

“Yes, I care,” he answered; “and it seemed all so dark before you brought the sunlight in with you; now I'm glad that they've accused me; somebody else might have suffered and had no one to believe in him. But I must go back to—my prison it seems like now—when I leave you;” this with a weary attempt at brave mockery.

Allis laid a detaining hand on his arm, the small gloved hand that had guided Lauzanne to victory. “If anything happens, if you are going away—I think you are right to go if they distrust you—you will see me before you leave, won't you?”

“Will you care to see me if I stand branded as a thief?” The word came very hard, but in his acridity he felt like not sparing himself; he wanted to get accustomed to the full obloquy.

“Promise me to come to Ringwood before going away,” she answered.

“Yes, I will; and I thank you. No matter how dark the shadow may make my life your kindness will be a hope light. No man is utterly lost when a good woman believes in him.”

The creaking bank door wailed tremulously, irritably; somebody was pushing it open from the inside. With a whine of remonstrance it swung wider, and Crane stepped out on the sidewalk. He stared in astonishment at Mortimer and Allis, his brow wrinkled in anger. Only for an instant; the forehead smoothed back into its normal placidity and his voice, well in hand, said, in even tones: “Good afternoon, Miss Porter. Are you going back to Ringwood?” and he nodded toward Allis's buggy.

“Yes, I am. I'm going now. Good day, Mr. Mortimer,” and she held out her hand.

Mortimer hesitated, and then, flushing, took the gloved fingers in his own. Without speaking, he turned and passed into the bank.

“May I go with you?” asked Crane; “I want to see your father.”

“Yes, I shall be glad to drive you over,” the girl answered.