‘Happy loss if it lighten the burden of your sin. Do you think that I shall be sorry to leave this place, Churchill? I have never known peace here since——’ She threw herself upon his breast with a shuddering sigh. ‘Madge, my dearest, my angel of love and compassion, be content to abide the issue of events. Leave all to me.’ ‘No, Churchill,’ she answered, raising her head, and looking at him with grave and earnest eyes, ‘I am not content. You know that since that bitter day I have left you in peace. I have not wearied you with my tears. I have suffered in secret, and have made it the chief duty of my life to lighten your burden, so far as in me lay. But I can be content no longer. The wealth that has weighed upon my soul can now be given up, with honour. The world can find no subject for slander in your quiet surrender of an estate for which a new claimant has arisen. And we can begin life afresh together, love, your soul purified by sacrifice, your conscience lightened, your peace made with God. We can begin life anew in some distant land, humbly, toilfully; so far away from all past cares, that your wrong-doing may seem no more than the memory of an evil dream, and all the future open for manifold good deeds that shall weigh against that one dreadful sin.’ She seemed like an angel pleading with him for the salvation of his soul, yet he resisted her. ‘It is useless, Madge. You do not know what you are talking about. I could not live a life of obscurity. It would be moral suicide.’ ‘Will you choose between me and fortune, Churchill?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘That unless you give up this estate you must give up me. I will live here no longer, share your ill-gotten wealth no longer!’ ‘Think of your boy.’ ‘I do think of him. God forbid that my son should ever inherit Penwyn. There is the curse of blood upon every rood of land. Let it pass into other hands—guiltless hands!’ ‘Give me time to think, Madge; you bewilder me by this sudden attack.’ ‘Think as long as you like, dearest; only decide rightly at last.’ And with one long kiss upon his pale forehead, she left him. Once alone, he set himself to think out his position—to face this new aspect of things. Could this alleged heiress—impostor or not—rob him of his estate? Was it possible for George Penwyn’s marriage, and the identity of George Penwyn’s child, to be proved in a court of law; proved so indisputably as to dislodge him from his position as possessor of the estate? ‘No,’ he told himself, ‘the strength will be all on my side. The law does not encourage claimants of this stamp. If it did, no man’s estate would be secure, no real property would be worth ten years purchase.’ He had taken a high tone with Maurice Clissold; had affected to regard the whole matter as an absurdity, but now, face to face with the facts that had been put before him, he felt that the question was serious, and that he could not be too prompt in action.