"You can pass him. Send him here at once." My father turned away and looked at me with all the old weariness in his face, but with little agitation. Of the two, I was the more nervous. I crossed the room and laid my hand gently upon his shoulder. "Thank God that I am here with you! What shall you say to him, father? What does he want, think you? Money?" My father shook his head sadly. "He would send if that were all. He has what he wants and that is not much. I fear that he wants something else." "What?" "His good name cleared." "He took the guilt willingly," I cried. "He must bear it now. He cannot escape from it." "He can," my father answered. "He can tell the truth." "No one would believe him. It would be his word against yours. What chance would he have?" My father turned a stern, dark face upon me. "So you think that I would swear to a lie, Philip? No! There was always this risk. I have felt that if ever he should demand to be set right with the world, it must be done." "It shall be done." We started, for the words came from the other side of the room. Standing in the deep shadows just inside the door was a tall, gaunt man, with long dishevelled beard and pale, ghastly face. His clothes were ragged and weather-stained and his boots were thick with mud. I looked towards him fascinated. It was the face of the lunatic who had twice attempted Mr. Marx's life. It was Hart, _alias_ Francis, the man who held in his hands a life dearer to me than my own. "Is it really you, Francis?" my father asked, in a shocked tone. "You are altered. You have been ill. Sit down." He took no notice. Whilst my father had been speaking his eyes had been wandering restlessly round the room. "Where is--he?" he asked hoarsely. "Do you mean Mr. Marx?" I said. "Yes." "He is in London." "Ah!" There was an expression in his face partly of disappointment, partly of relief. He drew a long breath and remained silent, as though waiting to be questioned. "Do you want money?" my father asked. "No." "Do you want to give up your secret, to let the world know the truth?" "Yes." A cry burst from my lips, but my father checked me. "It is well," he said. "Sit down. You need not fear; I will confess." "You have nothing to confess. It is I who must do that." "What do you mean?" my father asked, peering forward into the darkness, for there was no lamp lit in the room. "Come nearer; I cannot see your face." With trembling fingers I drew up the blind from the high window. The moon, which had just emerged from a bank of black, flying clouds, cast a long stream of light across the room. Francis moved forward with slow, reluctant steps. Then, with a sudden, wild cry, he threw himself upon his knees before my father. "As God in Heaven forgives, swear that you will forgive me!" he cried passionately. "Forgive! I have nothing to forgive," my father answered gently. "You wish to lay down your burden. Good! I am ready to take it up."