The one friend who held aloof was Tom Barley. No person was more profoundly grateful than he at the proclamation of Phoebe's innocence; but he contracted a horror of himself as being the principal cause of his dear young mistress's sufferings. All appeals to him to soften this hard judgment were vain; he would scarcely listen to them, and when, against his will, he was compelled to do so, they had no effect upon him. "It ain't a bit of good speaking to me," he said, moodily; "I don't deserve to live. And I shouldn't care to but for one thing." That one thing was a fierce burning desire to bring Jeremiah Pamflett and his wicked mother to justice. For, strange to say, all the vigilance of the police had proved fruitless; the wretches were still at liberty, and not the slightest clue to their hiding-place had been discovered. A month had passed since Phoebe's release, and they had successfully evaded pursuit. It was believed by some that they had escaped from the country; but Tom Barley held a different opinion. He was still in the force--a capable, faithful public servant, zealous and judicious in the performance of his duties, and regarded with esteem by his superiors; but a blight had fallen upon his life--a blight which he felt would not be removed until, through him, and through him alone, justice was satisfied. This idea grew into a kind of disease in him. It seemed as if he could exist without sleep. When not on duty he was indefatigable in hunting up clues, in making secret inquiries, in keeping watch in out-of-the-way places for the monsters of iniquity at whose door a double murder lay. He took no person into his confidence; he would accept no assistance; and he devoted every spare minute to the design upon which he had set his heart. His friends did not relinquish their efforts to woo him to a more peaceful and better frame of mind. Accompanied by Fred Cornwall, Phoebe went to him, and begged him not to torment himself with self-reproach. He listened to her in silence, with head bent down. "Will you not speak to me, Tom?" she asked, imploringly. "What can I say?" was his humble response. "How can I hope that you will ever forgive me?" "But there is nothing to forgive, Tom," she said, sweetly, holding out her hand. "It is like you to say so," he replied, "and it makes it all the worse for me." "I never knew you to be unkind to me before, Tom," she said. He turned away from her, and would not accept her hand. Fred Cornwall followed him, and said, "You should not make her suffer, Tom; you are inflicting great pain upon the sweetest lady in the world." "She is that, sir," said Tom, "and more. If I could die at her feet to save her a minute's pain I'd be glad to do it. Look here, sir; when I bring two devils to justice I'll ask her to forgive me; but not till then!"