Carrie sank down, burying her face in the cushions of her father’s chair, and Sebastian paced through the room in silence. A scheme was already in his mind which would easily enough gain Philip’s release; but whether to do it? Even the sight of Carrie kneeling there in such an abandonment of grief could not move him. Willingly he would see Philip Meadowes die: an offence to him in the very circumstances of his birth; the son of his bitter enemy; himself the man who had stolen Carrie from him—how was it possible that he should work for Philip’s release? Moreover, Philip was a murderer; Carrie might dotingly believe in his innocence—to the world he stood accused; it would be plainly wrong and unprincipled to assist at the reprieve of such a man. No, he would not do it, would never suggest the possibility to Carrie, to any one. Philip should die, and Carrie would return to her father’s house, and they would bury the past in the grave that closed over Richard Meadowes and his son. So argued Sebastian, as he paced up and down the quiet fire-lit room; then the silence became full of voices—the past sung and whispered to his heart; he was young again, and Annie was with him. Annie seemed now to speak so clearly that she might have been pacing beside him—she spoke always the same words, pleading with him for something with all her soul:—‘_If ever you can help my Phil . . . for my sake . . . and forgettin’ Dick Sundon and all his lies._’ She urged again and yet again. The time had come in truth; if ever Phil wanted a helper, he wanted one now, and yet Sebastian held back. ‘Don’t ask it of me, Annie!’ he cried out aloud, forgetful of Carrie’s presence in the fierceness of the mental struggle he was going through. Carrie sat up in surprise at the sound of his voice, and hearing a name she did not know. ‘Did you speak, sir?’ she asked. Her voice woke him to the present, to the realities of things, and his decision was taken in a moment. How had he ever questioned?—he had promised Annie once and for ever to help her son if it ever lay in his power to do so; worthy or unworthy, as Phil might be, that promise must be kept for the sake of the woman who had trusted him. Sebastian flung out his arms with a gesture of relief—like a man who has been long cramped. In the sudden rebound from the tense feeling of the last few minutes, he fairly laughed aloud, then bending over Carrie he raised her face to his, and kissed her wet blue eyes. ‘Come, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Take courage, mayhap we shall save him yet.’ Carrie held her breath, and Sebastian continued:— ‘My Lady Y—— suffers from an obscure disease of the finger-joints.’ . . . He paused and looked at Carrie for a moment.