"You'll talk differently to-morrow. Will you; once more?" "No." "Then I'm off. What do you mean to do?" "Wait." "Wait?" "Yes. I shall not try to escape. If they suspect me, let them take me. I shall face it all." "You'll soon alter your tune. Look here: I've been true to you; now you be true to me. Don't set the police on to me. No, you will not do that. You'll come after me; and mind this, you will always hear of me at the old lodgings, Great Ormond Street." Harry stood gazing straight at him, believing, in spite of his doubts, that Pradelle had not taken the money. The idea was strengthened. "Look here; I've only three half-crowns. I can't go with that. How much have you?" "Thirty shillings." "Then come, and we'll share." "No." "Lend me half then. I'll manage with that." For answer Harry thrust his hand into his pocket and took out all he had. "What, all?" said Pradelle, as he took the money. There was no reply. "Once more. Will you come?" Silence! "Then I'm off." Harry Vine stood gazing at vacancy, and once more tried to see his own path in the future, but all was dark. One thing he did know, and that was that his path did not run side by side with Victor Pradelle's. His sister's words still rang in his ears; her kisses seemed yet to be clinging to his lips. "No," he said at last, moodily; "I'll face what there is to come alone. No," he groaned, "I could not face it, I dare not." He started guiltily and scared, for there was the sound of a door closing softly. He listened, and there was a step, but it was not inside the house, it was on the shingle path; and as he darted to the old bay window, he could see a shadowy figure hurrying down the path. "Gone!" he said in a low voice, "gone! Yes, I'll keep my word--if I can." He opened the casement window, and stood there leaning against the heavy stone mullion, listening to the low soft beating of the waves far below. The cool air fanned his fevered cheek, and once more the power to think seemed to be coming back. He had had no idea of the lapse of time, and a flash of broad sunlight came upon him like a shock, making him start away from the window; now lit up with the old family shield and crest a blaze of brilliant colour. "_Roy et Foy_," he read silently; and the words seemed to mock him. Henri Comte des Vignes, the plotter in a robbery of the man who had been his benefactor. Perhaps his murderer. "Comte des Vignes!" he said, with a curious laugh. "Boy! vain, weak, empty-headed boy! What have I done--what have I done?" "Harry!" He started round with a cry to face his sister. "Not been to bed?" "No," he said wearily. "I could not sleep." She laid her hands upon his shoulders and kissed him. "Neither could I," she said, "for thinking of it all. Harry, if he should die!" He looked down into the eyes gazing so questioningly into his, but his lips framed no answer.