The proposal was eagerly hailed by Mark, who now began to consider whether he would share Zynool's communication with the stricken father, but decided that before doing so he would seek fuller information, and arranged to meet Mr. Morpeth at his house an hour or two later. He was desirous of returning to Puranapore as soon as possible, not only on account of his arrears of work, but also that he might through Zynool even in prison ascertain the charge that was brought against Rayner, which, on his own acknowledgment, had made him a fugitive in disguise. After seeing Mr. Morpeth into his little victoria, Mark drove to the Club, having much food for thought as he pondered over the tragical story to which he had listened; and which, as he linked on certain incidents which sprang to his memory with painful vividness, obliged him to acknowledge the utter baseness of Hester's husband. When Mr. Morpeth alighted from his carriage at Clive's Road and walked up the broad steps, he caught sight of Hester seated in the verandah, looking like a ghost of her former self. "The poor child must have heard already," he said to himself, as he went forward. Even the sound of the carriage wheels seemed to have struck terror into Hester's heart. She clung to the arms of her chair as she essayed to rise, and looked at her visitor with scared, questioning eyes. "You know already, then?" murmured Mr. Morpeth, taking her hand and gazing pitifully into her face. "Oh, have they caught him? Is he in prison?" she cried, the blood rushing into her pale cheeks. "Oh, I can't bear it!" "In prison, my dear? What do you mean?" asked Mr. Morpeth in a bewildered tone. "No, Hester, death is not prison! Pray that in spite of all it may be the Gate of Life." "'Death'! Have you come to tell me that my husband is dead?" she asked with startled air. Mr. Morpeth briefly narrated to her the events of which Mark Cheveril had put him in possession at the station. Hester listened, dry-eyed, as one spell-bound. "And Hester," he added slowly, "I prayed that I might bring this news to you because I am Alfred's father----" "You are? Then it _was_ true!" cried Hester, as if awakening from a dream. "But oh, why did not poor Alfred have all the good a father like you might have been to him? I thought these women who told me were only gossiping, but I even wished that it _were_ true. Why did you ever lose hold of your son?" asked Hester, looking reproachfully on the worn, grey face. So it happened, that for the second time that morning, David Morpeth, with aching heart, had to take up the tangled skein of the past. And Hester, as she listened, with her quick perception easily filled up the gaps in the narration. "Oh, the loss to him!" she murmured. "If he had been brought up by one good and true like you he might have been different, instead of being embittered, reckless, mad."