"The meaning is simple, Major Dundas. I am no extorter. I come to plead your sympathy--to plead it not, I trust, in vain, when you have heard my story, for there are many things about which I alone know the truth. I alone know who killed your uncle!" "Well, that you certainly should from all accounts. But upon my soul I marvel at your brazen impudence in coming here to tell me so--and I suppose to excuse yourself. Doesn't it strike you that I have been unusually forbearing in taking no part against you!" "I am no slayer of men, friend. I did not slay your uncle! I come to tell you who did." "You'll have to do more than tell me, I fancy, before I believe you." "First let me state for what it is I sue. It is small, friend, what I ask--sufficient only to restore me to the land whence I come; a mere matter of a hundred pounds." "I--_I_ am to give _you_ a hundred pounds!" "'Twill rid you of me for ever, friend--'twill rid you of all mention of the past. It is not a large amount." The Major scrutinised him closely for a moment. He began to think the man was queer. But there was something about him which compelled attention. In the first place he bore the stamp of breeding--in the second he piqued curiosity. The Major came to the conclusion that whatever he was, he was no ruffian. "Go on," he said, "let me hear your story. But look sharp about it." He fixed his dreamy eyes upon the Major for quite a minute before he began. "Years ago, friend, you had an aunt, Flora Barton. You will have heard of her. I loved her. She was to me the sweetest soul on earth. No dolphin in Galatea's train more blithe and gay than I, who thought to call her mine. But, alas! the goods of this world I had not, though she was blest with them, and more. Your uncle George, whose death we now deplore, swore she should not be mine. He exhorted me to withdraw. But I loved truly and deeply, and by my love I was being consumed beyond all heed of lucre; so that his exhortations were in vain--in vain, friend, in vain. And as he saw that this was so, he changed, and was to me as a true friend. And I rejoiced within me then, and was filled with joy. Ah, friend, what days were those! What happiness was mine. But all too soon the glory of my day was clouded and I fell. Yes, fell to crime. Like Orestes, I had appealed to Pythias, and Pythias had spurned me. I knew not where to go for money, for I had gambled, and I owed a goodly sum. And so I did that which has cursed my life--I wrote another's name--in the language of these days, good sir, I forged. I forged! I forged! I forged the name of George Barton! No sooner had I done the fatal deed than I saw what it meant, and regretted it a thousand times. But I could not give _her_ up. Together we took wing and fled. He followed, and my freedom was vouchsafed to me on one condition--that I gave up my love. Alas, what could I do? And so we parted, my love and I--she to the home