"I could have gone on working for you," he said, "trying to save enough to make restitution--some day. I _have_ already saved part of it. Look at me--look at my children--at the way we live, and you'll understand how I have saved. But I _have_ saved part of what I took. I'll give you that much before you go--before I go, too." His breath came heavily, unevenly; he cleared his eyes with a work-stained hand, fashioned for pens and ledgers. "You were abroad when I--did what I did. Vyse was merciless. I told him I could put it back if he'd give me the chance. But a thief was a thief to him--particularly when his own pocket was involved. He meant to send me to prison. The judge held him--he was his father-in-law--and he was an old man with a wife and children of his own." Herold was silent for a moment, and his gaze became vague and remote, then he lifted his head sharply: "A man makes one slip like that and the world damns him forever. And I tell you, Marche, that I am not dishonest by nature or in my character. God alone knows why I took those securities, meaning, of course, to return them, as all the poor, damned fools do mean when they do what I did. But Vyse made it a condition that I was to leave the country, and there was no chance of restitution unless I could remain in New York and do what I knew how to do--no chance, Marche--and so fortune ebbed, and my wife died, and the old judge saw me working on the water-front in Norfolk one day, and gave me this place. That is all." "Why did you feign illness?" asked Marche, in an altered voice. "You know why." "You thought I'd discharge you?" "Of course." Marche stepped nearer. "Why did you come to me here to-night?" Herold flushed deeply. "It was your right to know--and my daughter's right--before she broke her heart." "I see. You naturally suppose that I would scarcely care to marry the daughter of a----" He stopped short, and Herold set his teeth. "Say it," he said, "and let this end matters for all of us. Except that I have saved seven thousand dollars toward--what I took. I will draw you a check for it now." He walked steadily to the table, laid out a thin checkbook, and with his fountain-pen wrote out a check for seven thousand dollars on a Norfolk bank. "There you are, Marche," he said wearily. "I made most of it buying and selling pine timber in this district. It seemed a little like expiation, too, working here for you, unknown to you. I won't stay, now, of course. I'll try to pay back the rest--little by little--somehow." "The way to pay it back," said Marche, "is to do the work you are fitted for." Herold looked up. "How can I?" "Why not?" "I could not go back to New York. I have no money to go with, even if I could find a place for myself again." "Your place is open to you." Herold stared at him.