The clock on the mantelshelf chimed the hour—half-past ten. It was time he started to call on Sir Reginald Crichton. But he did not move. During the night, during the long hours of darkness, he had made up his mind that the woman he loved was guilty of the crime of which obviously he was already suspected. And he had made up his mind what course of action he would pursue. But by the cold, clear light of day he began to reason again, once more to argue with himself. In imagination he saw two figures standing by his side; one on the right, the other on the left. Duty and Love. His duty was to tell the whole truth. To clear himself from any possible shadow of guilt. That was his duty, because his life was not his own any more than his name. Both, in a sense, belonged to his father and sister. And his sister was loved by the son of the man he was suspected of robbing. But Love, on his left hand, told him that at all costs he must shield and save the woman who loved him. If she had done this terrible thing, she had done it on the inspiration of the moment; love and fear had made her do it. She had found him seated in this very room determined to take his life. She had entered at the critical moment. And when she had tried to show him his folly and sin, he had told her, calmly and quietly, that nothing could alter his determination. He had told her he was not only thinking of himself, but of his father and Marjorie. And that was why she had done this thing ... To save him and those he loved. She had not considered herself at all. It was not just because she loved him and wanted to keep him. He remembered everything she had said to him and he had said to her in this little room a week ago. He put his hands up to his face. They were wet and clammy now. Love and Duty. He heard the front door bell ring. He started to his feet, his nerve had gone. Again the clock chimed the hour—eleven. Sir Reginald Crichton would be waiting for him. He turned towards the bedroom, then stopped. There was a hurried knock on the door and the landlady entered. He noticed that her face looked white, her large, coarse hands were clasped together. "There are two—two gentlemen to see you, sir. I didn’t know what to say. I told them to wait while I saw if you was at home or not." Rupert pulled himself together. He looked at Mrs. Jones and smiled. "I haven’t finished my breakfast yet. Tell them to come up." As he spoke the men entered the room. Rupert looked at them, and he knew who they were and why they had come. There was a moment’s silence. He glanced at Mrs. Jones and smiled again. "You can go." Very slowly she stepped back. "I hope nothing’s wrong," she stammered. "I’m sure the young gentleman’s done nothing—nothing to be ashamed of——" "That’s all right, Mrs. Jones.... Shut the door, please."