Mr. Theodore Shelf stepped on shore at the Devonshire seaport a free man, and free he remained for that night and the succeeding morning, as there was no warrant in the town on which to arrest him. The whole place knew his name, and crowded round the hotel where he stayed with open-mouthed interest. The local police bit their fingers, and betted odds that he would commit suicide; and on suicide the wretched man’s thoughts continually turned. But he could not screw himself up to the pitch. He read with morbid carefulness the newspaper accounts of the crash, and he dulled his soul with brandy. Save for one other thing, that was all he did till the police came and fetched him away. His remaining action was a typical one. He ordered in a local tailor, and once more attired himself in somber black broadcloth. The bright-colored tweeds he burnt. If he had to go back to London, it should be as the ghost of his old self, and not as the caricature of his new. Of the man’s journey to London, and the peering crowds at every stop, there shall be no further word here; nor of the frenzied attempt to lynch him, which a crowd of his victims made in Paddington Station; nor of the sensational trial; nor of the awful details of destitution which spread all over the face of the land. These things were written of at length in the daily Press, and the memory of them is new and raw. Therefore they need not be repeated. One other short look at him must suffice for the present time. CHAPTER XXV. CLOSING STRANDS. Hamilton Fairfax came into the drawing-room of their newly bought house in Kent and kissed his wife, and sat down in a deep armchair. She perched herself upon the arm and leaned her shoulder against his. He was looking gloomy, and she commented on it. “I don’t feel cheerful, my dear, and that’s a fact,” he said. “I’ve had to run down to Portland to see that pernicious old guardian of yours, and the sight of fallen splendor is never very exhilarating.” “Poor Mr. Shelf!” said Amy Fairfax, softly. “I suppose he deserves his fourteen years, but, on my soul, I’m sorry for him. I wish from my heart that he had managed to get away in the _Gazelle_.” “And scoffed at the law?” “Oh, bother the law! I’m thinking of the man; not of what he did. He was always most kind to me.” “If it hadn’t been for some one else who took an interest in you, my dear, he’d have made off with your fortune with his other plunder.” “Don’t blow your own trumpet, Hamilton. I know quite well all about that. But the facts remain that he didn’t get it; and that he was always fond of me; and that he maneuvered to get me out of the house that awful night when the _exposé_ came. That last thing alone would make me think kindly of him if nothing else did. What is he doing now? Tell me!”