"Because the fact paralysed me, making me both a fool and a coward, and the moment for avowals went by, passed for ever. I would have give my own life to undo my work and restore that of Philip King. It was too late. All was too late. So I have lived on as I best could, hiding myself from the law, an exile from my country, my wife a stranger; regarded by the world as a murderer, liable to be called upon at any moment to expiate it, and with a man's death upon my soul. Over and over again would I have given myself up, but for the disgrace it would bring to my family." "I thought it might be an accident, Mr. Heneage—have always thought it," I said, with a sigh of relief. "Thank God, yes! But the wicked wish had been there, though uttered in reckless sport. Oh, child, don't you see how glad I shall be to go? Christ has washed away sins as red as mine. Not of my sins, comparatively speaking, has the care lain heavily upon me night and day; but of another's." Did he mean Selina's? "Of whose, sir?" "Philip King's. I gave him no time to pray for them. There's a verse in the Bible, Anne, that has brought me comfort at times," he whispered, with feverish eagerness, gazing at me with his earnest, yearning eyes. "When the disciples asked of the Redeemer who then can be saved, there came in answer the loving words, 'With men this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.'" He might not have said more; I don't know; but Hill came in to announce Dr. Laken. Her face of astonishment when she saw me sitting there was ludicrous to behold. George Heneage wrung my hand as I left him. "You see, Hill, they ask me in here of themselves," I could not help saying, in a sort of triumph, as she held the green-baize door open for me. Hill returned a defiant grunt by way of answer, and I brushed past Dr. Laken as he came along the gallery with another gentleman, who was dressed in the garb of a clergyman. CHAPTER XXVIII. AN IGNOMINIOUS EXIT. The windows were thrown open to the bright morning air; the late autumn birds were singing, the trees were gently waving; even the gloomy pine-walk opposite had a ray of sunlight on it. Little thought I as I stood in the oak-parlour with my great happiness, little thought the servants as they went about their work, that some one lay dead in the west wing. Breakfast waited on the table; the postman came with the letters; Hickens looked in to see if he might bring the urn. He waited on us far more than the rest did, although he was butler, knowing that Mr. Chandos liked it. A stir in the hall at last: Mrs. Penn's voice speaking to Lizzy Dene. The tones were low, but they reached my ear. "I cannot think you delivered that letter last evening, Lizzy. I ought to have received an answer long before this." "Not deliver it, ma'am!" returned Lizzy, with every sound of surprise. "I gave it in to the young man at the door." "Wait a moment, Lizzy: what a hurry you are in! Are you sure Mr. Edwin Barley was at home?"