"I shall have to leave town to-morrow," Sir Reginald said as he took his leave. "But I understand you will be fit to be moved in a few days’ time. Mr. Despard wished to be remembered to you, and said he would look in and see you to-morrow; and when you’re fit to travel he says he’ll take you down to Devonshire himself. He made a proposal to me directly the trial was over which I must say does him great credit. I am not at liberty to say what this thing was, but I hope you will be able to accept it—if not for your own, then for your daughter’s sake. We have got to consider her now, Mr. Dale, before ourselves. She is young, and life is still sweet to her." Dale shook his head. "Nothing seems to matter now, Sir Reginald. I can’t conceive what proposal Mr. Despard has to make. He is my son’s friend, not mine. But as you justly say, I must consider Marjorie. For her I must live and fight in spite of the shame that has fallen upon me." Sir Reginald nodded. "That’s right. I think you will find Mr. Despard means well, and sincerely wishes to help you—for Rupert’s sake." He turned to go—then stopped. "Have you written or telegraphed to Marjorie—the result of the trial I mean?" Dale shook his head: "She’s alone. If she were to hear from the lips of strangers——" Crichton nodded. "I tell you what I’ll do; I’ll wire to Jim the first thing to-morrow morning and tell him to go over and break the news. They’re old friends and playmates. It will be better than if she sees it in the newspapers or gets it from the gossips——" But Dale started up in his bed and stretched out his hands. "No, you mustn’t do that, Sir Reginald. You mustn’t do it. Your boy must never see my daughter again—never!" "Why not?" Sir Reginald asked, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder. Dale looked at him with haggard eyes. "Don’t you know? Your son is in love with Marjorie. He wants to make her his wife!" Sir Reginald Crichton started and turned away: "My God!" he said under his breath. "I never suspected that! You’re right, Dale, I’m afraid they must never meet again. I’m sorry—but it’s impossible. Any thought of marriage. Utterly impossible now!" CHAPTER XIII. THE IRONY OF FATE. Rupert found that four weeks in prison was a lifetime. His experience at Holloway before the trial helped him not at all; though he remembered now, that at the time, it had shocked and horrified him. Yet the cruelty and ugliness had all been on the surface. Looking back on it now, after four weeks of the real thing, with the eyes of a professional, he saw the humorous as well as the dramatic side of it.