He paused a moment as if expecting an interruption, but neither Jim nor Marjorie spoke. They were as motionless as figures of stone. "Just before—before I was accused of robbing your father, Mr. Crichton, Despard and I found there was pitch-blende in the old tin mine by Blackthorn Farm. Despard made experiments with it and—he got a report from Vardoff—you may have heard of him—an expert. The report said there were good grounds for supposing that radium might be——" Then Jim Crichton stopped him. "Save your breath. We know this. Why, already the plant is being erected, a company floated. Mr. Despard has apparently done quite the right thing. Anyway, the property belongs to your father again, and if there’s any truth in the report he’ll make a fortune. If that’s all you came to say, all you wanted to know, you can go back to prison with an easy conscience." He spoke brutally. "You must go back, you know." "I am innocent." "That’s not the question now. You must go back." Slowly Rupert turned and looked at his sister. "Marjorie. Help me! Say a word for me. He loves you.... Ask him, and he’ll help me to escape. For he can, now. The warders won’t come back here. I’m safe for the moment. Marjorie—speak. You are my flesh and blood. Speak! It’s my life I’m pleading for." CHAPTER XX. PLANS FOR ESCAPE. Marjorie looked at her lover. He met her gaze fairly. But she saw fear in his eyes—a thing she had never seen there before. She knew he had never known the meaning of fear until now. Then she looked at her brother. Crossing to his side she told him to stand up. "Look at me, Rupert. Tell me whether you’re innocent or guilty—one moment, before you speak. I know, but I want to hear the truth from your lips." "It can make no difference." Jim Crichton spoke. "He has been found guilty. He has escaped from prison. He must go back to prison." Brother and sister were standing close together, facing one another fearlessly now. To Jim listening and watching it seemed a long time before Rupert spoke. "I am innocent," he said at last. Marjorie put her arms around him, holding him closely and tightly. "I knew it." Tears filled her eyes, but she forced them back. "Who was the guilty person? Do you know that?" "Yes. I know that." "Who was it?" Her voice rose triumphantly. Again there was a long silence. Jim turned his back. He was fighting against the fear which possessed him. He was afraid of himself. Emotions of which he had never before been conscious filled his heart—war against ideals, principles and faiths to which he had been brought up. "I shall never say who was guilty." Marjorie gave vent to a little cry: a cry of joy. She took her brother’s hands, both of them, and covered them with kisses. Roughly he snatched them away and stood back.