"He said--" a sob choked the words--"that I must find--John. I must lay waste the beautiful memory of him. Show the _coward_ who had not been able to stand before men! I must redeem the past as best I could. I must begin with you--the friend he most loved--for you must help me find--John." Ralph Drew rose weakly to his feet. Something had gone out of him. Something that he groped after, but could not grasp. He felt as if he and the stricken woman before him were lost upon a black and dangerous road. Their only salvation was to cling together spiritually and bodily. He caught the back of her chair for support, and bent over her. "Is there no one, who kept in touch with--the brother? Was he utterly forsaken? God help him!" "They said it was his desire. But there was one--I never knew who it was; that was part of the mystery--but some one claimed and claimed money for him, for John. I knew sums of money were paid regularly, I used to think it was another of Philip's charities--but I know now that there was a constant lash laid upon him. Oh! if they had only known all. "Ralph, Philip left nearly all his fortune to his brother. There is only my portion reserved for me. So you see I must find him. I was left sole executor." "I will help you, Ruth." "I was sure you would. Philip spoke your name last; he said you could see the man he tried to be, even in the man he was." "Yes! yes, a thousand times more than he ever hoped. What was the poor crumbling shell compared to the splendid soul that he builded through those horrible years? Years when he could not quite free himself from the craven thing that was his curse--the fear! fear! fear!" The two were silent for a moment while the red glow showed them haggard and worn. Then it was the woman who spoke. "Ralph--do you think a woman can love--really love--two men?" He stared at her. "Perhaps," he faltered; "perhaps, but in different ways." "I loved them both. When--when I find John--if he wants me--if he asks me--I shall marry him." She shuddered. "Ruth!" "Yes; I think Philip would give him even--me. His renunciation was wide and deep. He, the great, strong soul of him, went on--alone. It had no real part with his weakness and all that was bound up in his weakness--he wanted John to have everything of which he had deprived him. You can understand, can you not? At the last, when fear had no further power, he was almost mad in his abandon of recompense. "He did not tell me this, that awful night when he told me--the rest; but I felt it. I saw that I, with all else that had meant anything to him, was included in his shame; and the new nature that had evolved from the agony and remorse--had nothing to do with us any more!" A deep sob shook the slim form. For a moment Ruth Dale rocked to and fro in her misery, then she let the wild confession again have its way.