"She must never know!" cried the unhappy man in a hoarse voice. "By Gad! she must never know of my shame, Arnold." "Then go in with us in this new affair. It'll pay you well." "No," he cried. "I--I feel that I can't! I couldn't face her, if she knew. Her mother was one of the best and purest women who ever lived, and----" "Of course, of course. I know all that, my dear fellow," cried the other hastily. "I know all the tragedy of your marriage--but that's years ago. Let the past bury itself, and have an eye to the main chance and the future. Just take my advice, Phil. Drop all this humbug about your girl and her feelings if she learnt her father's real profession. She'll know it one day, that's certain. You surely aren't going to allow her to stand in your way and prevent you from participating in what is real good solid business--eh? You want money, you know." "I've given my answer," was the man's brief response. Then a silence fell between the pair of well-dressed cosmopolitans--a dead, painful silence, broken only by the low hum of the insects, the buzzing of a fly upon the window-pane, and the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner. "Reflect," urged Du Cane at last, as he rose to his feet. Then, lowering his voice, he said in a hoarse whisper, "You may find yourself in a corner over that affair of young Burke. If so, it's only I and my friends who could prove an alibi. Remember that." "And you offer that, in return for my assistance?" Poland said reflectively, hesitating for a moment and turning to the window. His visitor nodded in the affirmative. Next second the man to whom those terms had been offered quickly faced his friend. His countenance was haggard, blanched to the lips, for he had been quick to realize the full meaning of that covert threat. "Arnold!" he said in a hoarse, strained voice, full of bitter reproach, "you may turn upon me, give me away to the police--tell them the truth--but my decision remains the same. I will lend no hand in that affair." "You are prepared to face arrest--eh?" "If it is your will--yes." "And your daughter?" "That is my own affair." "Very well, then. As you will," was the bald-headed man's response, as he put on his grey felt hat and, taking his stick, strode through the open French windows and disappeared. Phil Poland stood rigid as a statue. The blow had fallen. His secret was out. He sprang forward towards the garden, in order to recall his visitor. But next instant he drew himself back. No. Now that the friend whom he had trusted had turned upon him, he would face the music rather than add another crime to his discredit and dishonour. Philip Poland, alias Louis Lessar and half-a-score of other names, halted, and raised his pale, repentant face to Heaven for help and guidance. II CONCERNS TWO STRANGERS