For several minutes after Allen had gone, Helen sat, her face in her hands, waiting for the refluence of her strength. Then she walked back to the library, where she found David pacing restlessly to and fro. He saw that she was very white and that she was trembling, and forbearing to question her he led her to a deep easy-chair before the open wood fire. But she saw his suspense and at once told him that Allen would be silent.

Gently, reverently, David laid his hand upon her hair, and of all the things in his heart he could only say, "You saved me."

She drew his hand down and held it against her cheek and gazed up into his eyes. He sat down on the arm of her chair. They had both been through too great a strain to fall into easy converse, and for several minutes each was filled with quivering thoughts. Presently David remembered what he had forgotten since entering the house—his experience at St. John's Hospital. He told her the story, and when he had ended he drew out the packet containing the yellow letters, the photograph and the two notes of five years before.

"Well, they'll make no more trouble," he said, and started toward the fire-place.

She laid a hand upon his arm. "What are you going to do?"

"Burn them."

She shook her head and held out her hand. "No—you must not. Give them to me."

He laid them in her hand. "But why do you want them?"

"Didn't you ever think, David, that there may come a time, years from now, when you may want to clear your name? Well, these letters will help. I shall keep them for that time. They're precious to me, because they contain your good name."

She slipped the soiled and worn packet into the front of her dress. In the silence that followed, her mind, as it was constantly doing these days, reverted to her father's business practices, and again she was beset by the necessity of telling David her new estimate of her father. She gathered her strength, and, eyes downcast, told him briefly, brokenly, that her father was not an honest man. "So you see," she ended, "I have no right to any of these things about me—I have no right to stay here."

David had suffered with her the shame of her confession. He took her hands. "Oh, I wish I had the right to ask you to come to me, Helen!"

She raised her eyes. "I'm coming to you," she said.

"But I'd be a brute to let you. You can leave your father, and yet keep almost everything of your present life except its wealth—your friends, your position, your influence, your honour. I can't let you give up all these things—exchange them for my disgrace. I can't let you become the wife of a thief! I love you too much!"

"But I'm ready for it!"

"I can't do it, Helen! I can't!"

She gazed at his pain-drawn, determined face—her eyes wide, her lips loosely parted, her face gray. "And you never will?" she whispered.

"I can't!" he groaned huskily.

His arm dropped from the chair back about her shoulders, and they sat silently gazing into each other's eyes. They were still sitting so when the library doors rolled back and Mr. Chambers appeared between them. David sprang up, and Helen also rose. Mr. Chambers gave back a pace as to a blow, and his hand gripped the door. For a moment he stared at them, then he quietly closed the door and crossed the room.

Rigidly erect, he paused in front of Helen, his face pale and set and harsh, and looked squarely into her face. He turned a second to David; his gray eyes were like knives of gray steel. Then his gaze came back to Helen.

"What's this mean?" his quiet voice grated out.

Helen's face was like paper and her eyes, held straight into his, had a fixed, wild stare. She gathered her strength with a supreme effort.

"I'm going to marry him," she said.

For a moment he merely stared at her. Then he reached out a hand that trembled, caught her arm and shook her lightly.

"Helen?" he cried. "Helen?"

"I'm going to marry him," she repeated, with a little gasp.

"You're—really—in—your—senses?"

"I am."

He loosed his hold, and studied her strained face. "You are!" he whispered, in low consternation.

David's defiant hatred of Mr. Chambers was beginning to rise. He was willing that Mr. Chambers should feel pain; but Helen's suffering because of himself, this would not let him keep silent.

"But, Helen, you know you're——"

She stopped him with a touch on his shoulder. "This is my moment. I've been expecting it. It is I that must speak."

Mr. Chambers slowly reddened with anger. "Marry that thief? You shall not!" he cried.

Her face was twitching, tears were starting in her eyes. "Forgive me for saying it, father," she besought tremulously, "but—can you prevent me?"

"Your reason, your self-respect, should prevent you. Have you thought of the poverty?"

She put a hand through David's arm. "I have. I'm ready for it."

"And of the disgrace?"

"I'm ready for it."

He paled again. He saw the utter social ruin of his daughter, and it gave him infinite pain—and he saw the social injury to himself. She would sink from her present world, and her sinking would be the year's scandal; and that scandal he would have to live with, daily meet face to face.

"Yes," he said slowly, "but your act will also disgrace your family, your friends. You are willing to disgrace me?"

For three weeks conscience had demanded one attitude toward him, love another. "Please let's not speak of that!" she begged.

"You're willing to disgrace me?" he repeated.

She did not answer for a moment; then "Forgive me—I am," she whispered.

"And you're decided—absolutely determined?"

She nodded.

"My God, Helen!" he burst out, "to think that you, with open eyes, would destroy yourself and dishonour your father!"

"Forgive me!" she begged.

He turned to David, his face fierce with rageful contempt. "And Aldrich! Let me say one thing to you. Any man in your situation who would ask a decent woman to marry him is a damned cad!"

Helen raised a hand to stop the retort that was on David's lips. "It is I that insist on marriage—he refuses me," she said quietly.

Mr. Chambers stared long at her, astounded as he had never before been in his life. "There's something behind all this," he said, abruptly.

She was silent.

Even in this tense moment his readiness did not desert him. Sometimes one is stronger than two, sometimes weaker. This time one would be weaker.

"Mr. Aldrich," he said quietly, "would you be so kind as to leave us. There are matters here to be talked over only between Helen and me."

Helen felt the moment before her she had for a month been fearing—felt herself on the verge of the greatest crisis of her life. "Yes—please do, David. It's best for us two to be alone."

She gave David her hand. He pressed it and silently withdrew.

Mr. Chambers stepped close to Helen and gazed searchingly into her face. "There's something back of this. You're telling me all?"

"I can't—please don't ask me, father!"

"You propose—he refuses," he said meditatively. He studied her face for several moments. "I think I know you, my child.—I would have staked my fortune, my life, that you would never have given yourself to any but a man of the highest character."

His face knitted with thought; he began to nod his head ever so slightly. "I recall now that there were some queer circumstances connected with his taking the money. His motives, what he did with it, did not seem particularly plausible to me."

His eyes fairly looked her through. His mind, trained to see and consider instantly all the factors of a situation, and instantly to reach a conclusion, sought with all its concentration the most logical explanation of this mystery.

After a moment he said softly: "So—he didn't take the money after all?"

She gazed at him in choking fascination.

"If he had taken it, if he was what he seems to be, you would never have offered to marry him," he went on in the same soft voice. "I've guessed right—have I not?"

She did not answer.

"Have I not?" he repeated, dominantly.

It seemed to her that the words were being dragged from her by a resistless power. "Yes," she whispered. The next instant she clasped her hands. "Oh, why did I tell!" she cried.

"I guessed it," he said.

They looked silently at each other for a space. When he spoke his tone was quiet again.

"Since I know the main fact I might as well know the minor ones. Why did he pretend to be guilty?"

She hesitated. But he knew the essential fact—and, besides, he was her father, and she had the daughter-desire for her father to appreciate what manner of a man this was whom she loved. So she told the story in a few sentences.

"It's remarkable," he said in a voice that showed he had been affected deeply. "I can see that it was a deed to touch a woman's heart. All the same—he's not the match I'd prefer for you."

He was thoughtful for several moments. He knew the quality of Helen's will—knew there was no changing her determination to marry David. The problem, then, was to arrange so that the marriage would bring the minimum disgrace.

"No, he's not the match I'd prefer for you. Still, if he'll publicly admit and establish his innocence, I'll have not a word to say against him."

"But we've agreed that he can't do that," she said. "I've already made plain to you that to clear himself would be to destroy St. Christopher's."

"Nothing can change that decision?"

"No."

Mr. Chambers again thought for a minute. "I think you exaggerate the effect of the truth on St. Christopher's. However, for the moment, I'll grant you're right. From what you told me I gather Mr. Aldrich has some rather large philanthropic ideas. Well, if he will clear himself, I'll settle upon you any amount you wish—ten million, twenty million. That will enable him to carry out his ideas on any scale he may like. The good he can do will more than balance any injury that may be done to St. Christopher's. On the one hand, he will have, and you with him, powerless disgrace. On the other, clear name, love, fortune, unlimited power to do good."

She slowly shook her head. "It's all thought over—he can't do it."

"And nothing can change your determination to marry him?"

She held out a hand to him. "No. Forgive me, father," she whispered.

He gazed steadily at her—and again his quick mind was searching for a solution to the situation. He pressed her hand. "I want to think. We'll speak of this again."

He started out, but she stepped before him. "Wait—there's something I must say. But first, you must never tell what you've just found out."'

He did not answer.

His silence stirred a sudden new fear. She crept close to him and peered up into his face. "Father—you're not going to tell, are you?"

Again he was silent.

Her face paled with consternation. She drew a long breath, and her voice came out a thin whisper. "You are going to tell, father! I see it."

He looked into her wide brown eyes and at her quivering face. "I think, Helen, you can leave the proper action to my discretion."

She swayed slightly, and then her whole body tightened with effort. "You are going to make his innocence public," she said, with slow accusation. "You can't deny it."

"I am," he said shortly.

She stepped a pace nearer him. "You must not! You must not!" she cried.

His jaw tightened and his brows drew together. "I shall!—you hear me?"

"But, father—it isn't your secret. You haven't the right."

"I have the right to protect my own daughter and myself!"

"But to destroy others?" she implored. "You know it will ruin hundreds. Have you the right to do that?"

"A man's first duty is to those nearest him."

"But don't you see?—you destroy hundreds to save yourself, and me!"

"You have my answer," he said.

She looked at him despairingly. "Then nothing can stop you?"

"Nothing." His face was firm, his voice hard. "And now, Helen, I'm going," he said shortly. "There's nothing more to be said."

Helen caught his arm. "Not yet!" She gazed at him, her face gray and helpless.... Then the crisis gave her inspiration. A new view of the situation flashed into her mind. She considered it for several moments.

"Father," she said.

"Well?"

She spoke slowly, with a frantic control, with the earnestness of desperation. "Listen, father. Suppose you tell—what will be the use? David will deny your story. I, who shall be with him, I shall deny the story. And there is the decision of the court. All say the same. On your side, you have no proof—not one bit. The world will say you made up the story just to save yourself. The world will honour you less, because it will say you've tried to save yourself by disgracing Mr. Morton.... Don't you see, father?—it will do you no good to tell!—don't you see?"

He gazed at her, but did not answer.

"The story will create a great scandal—yes," she went on. "For you to accuse Mr. Morton—you know how that will injure St. Christopher's before the public—you know how it will lessen the Mission's influence in the neighbourhood. The story will do great ill—so very great an ill! But it will not help you a bit, father—not a bit!"

She paused a moment. "Please do not tell it father! Please do not ... I beg it of you!"

He did not reply at once. He realised the truth of what she had said—but to yield was hard for the Chambers's will, and it was hard to accept the great dishonour. He swallowed with an effort.

"Very well," he said.

"Then you'll say nothing?" she asked eagerly.

"No."

"Oh, thank you!—thank you!" she cried, her voice vibrating with her great relief.

They looked into each other's eyes for a long space. "I hope this is all," he said.

"There's one more thing," she answered, and tried to gather herself for another effort. Her breast rose and fell, and she was all a-tremble. "There is something else—something I must say—something that has been upon my heart for weeks. Say that you forgive me before I say it, father!"

"Go on!"

Her voice was no more than a whisper. "I have learned that the stories ... about your not being honest ... are true."

His face blanched. "So—you insult your own father!"

"Don't make it any harder!" she besought piteously.

"You do not understand business matters," he said, harshly.

She did not hear his last words. "This is the other thing—I'm going to leave home," she went on rapidly. "Perhaps I would not decide to do what I am going to do, if I thought I could help you—to be different. But I know you, father; I know you will not—be different; you do not need me—you are strong and need no support—you will have Aunt Caroline. So I am going to go.

"I'm going to leave home because it seems to me that I have no right to it—to it and the other things of my life. You understand. So I want to ask you not to send any of these things to me. I want nothing—not a cent."

He was silent a moment. The determination in her face again kept him from argument or intercession. He saw that to her this break was a great, tragic, unchangeable fact, and so it also became to him.

"But how are you going to live?" he asked.

"I have the money mother left me—that's enough."

Despite the tragedy of the moment a faint smile drew back the corners of his mouth. "That's two thousand a year—that doesn't begin to pay for your clothes."

"I shall wear different clothes. It will be enough."

"Very well." His face became grim. "And I have my reason why I cannot give you anything! Do you realise, Helen, that you are driving me, in order to protect my reputation, to disown you publicly if you marry Mr. Aldrich?"

She did not reply. "But don't forget," he went on after a moment, "that you are escaping my fortune only temporarily. It will all go to you on my death."

"No—no! I don't want it!"

"But you can't escape it, if I choose to leave it to you."

"If you do," she said slowly, "I shall use it to make restitution, as far as I can, to the people it—it came from." She added, almost breathlessly, "Why not do that now, father? It's the thing I've been wanting to ask you, but have not dared."

"I have not noticed any lack of daring," he observed grimly.

There was a brief silence. "Then this is all," she said.

Suddenly she stretched out her arms to him, and tears sprang into her eyes. "Forgive me, father!—forgive me!"

Standing very erect, his hands folded before him, he gazed fixedly into her imploring face while his mind comprehended their new relations.

She dared a step nearer and laid a hand upon his arm. "Forgive me—won't you please, father?" she whispered.

His face twitched, and he put his hands on her shoulders almost convulsively. "You're taking my heart out!" he said huskily.

"Forgive me!" she sobbed. "I can't help it! I'm the way God made me."

"And God made you very much like your mother," he said, his mind running back to scenes not unlike this. He drew her to him and she flung her arms about his neck and they kissed.

"I love my father—I always shall—it's the business man that"—but her voice trailed away into sobs.

They drew apart. "We shall never speak of this matter again," she said tremulously. She held out her hand. "Good-bye ... father. I shall see you again—yes. But this is the real good-bye."

He took her hand. "Good-bye," he said.

They gazed steadily into each other's eyes. "Good-bye," she repeated in a low voice, and, head down, walked slowly from the room.

He sat long before the fire while upon him his new situation pressed more heavily, more sharply. It was the bitterest hour of his life. Upon him bore the pain of impending public disgrace, the pain of the loss of his daughter—and cruellest of all, the pain of being judged by the one person of his heart, disowned by her. And this last bitterness was given a deep-cutting, ironic edge as he realised afresh that, to protect himself, he must disown her—that, cast off by her, he must make it appear to the world that he had cast her off.

And how the world would take this! His imagination saw in the papers of some near day, across the first page in great black head-lines, "Miss Helen Chambers Marries Ex-Convict—Disowned and Disinherited By Her Father—Social World Horrified!" The irony of it!

But even in this hour, pained as he was by Helen's judgment, he felt no regret for those deeds for which he had been judged. For thirty years and more he had had one supreme object—to take from life, for himself, all that life could be made to yield. All his faculties were pointed to, attuned to, acquisition. His instinct, his long habit, his mighty will, his opportunity-making mind, his long succession of successes, the irresistible command of his every cell to go on, and on, and on—all these united in a momentum that allowed him neither to recoil from what he had done nor to regard it with regret. He felt pain, yes—but mixed with his pain was no other feeling, no impulse, that would swerve his life even a single degree from its thirty-years' direction.