"I made an acquaintance in Boston--an Episcopal clergyman. We took a walking tour together--had sundry adventures. I went home with him. He has a sister. After a little while I felt what it was to have such a past behind me. And a Boston gentleman such as Mr Dallas was not likely to accept a wandering Englishman for a son-in-law without inquiry, nor to think it natural that my father's eldest son should be living over there. I knew what sort of thing a few inquiries would tell him, and I knew what I had flung away." Alwyn paused for a moment and then went on hurriedly--"All my views changed--changed utterly." "You decided to come home," said Edgar. "Yes," said Alwyn, "but then something else happened." He took a pocket-book out of his pocket, opened it, and, unrolling a little packet of tissue paper, laid something bright and glittering on Edgar's hand. "Did you ever see that before?" he said. "Yes," as Edgar looked at him with startled eyes, "I see you remember it. But say what it is." "It is one of Mrs Fletcher's lost jewels," said Edgar, as if under a spell. It was a curious enamelled bird with a great ruby in its breast, and set in a sort of frame of emeralds, a curiosity as well as an object of intrinsic value. "Yes. I didn't steal it, though," said Alwyn; "nor did Harry Whittaker." The cool dry tone in which this was said was exactly that of the old Alwyn. "I know who did, though," he said, "and I have come back to try to prove it. Curious proof, don't you think, of innocence, to produce the stolen object?" "What proof can be needed?" said Edgar, warmly. Alwyn smiled. "I never thought there would be--for you," he said. "But it's a very long story. I think I must write it for you. There are some things I must ask. Shall we be interrupted? How can I see you again alone? My father--is he well--is he altered?" "He is pretty well," said Edgar, "and--not altered. Wyn Warren will be back directly, I think I must tell him. You see I can't get anywhere alone. I couldn't even post a letter for myself. And my father, you know, unlocks the post-bag. I hardly ever get letters." Edgar spoke merely as if considering the difficulties of the case--quite cheerfully; but to Alwyn the words sounded most pitiful. "Then try not to trouble about me," he said; "you have given me a welcome. I must manage for myself. Of course I am only keeping quiet till I can get one or two things in train. I am staying in London. You mustn't have to bear the brunt of any discovery." "I don't care a straw for that," said Edgar. "I'll answer for little Wyn. He shall bring me here again to-morrow, if possible; in any case he shall come himself. When I understand dearly I can tell my father that I've seen you, and everything else you think proper."