“What! you will blot yourself out of existence and let your enemies triumph?” “Yes.” “But think what you are doing. The world execrates your memory and your mother’s heart is breaking. How can you bear this?” “My poor mother!” groaned Francis. “But, Emmett, if I go home now, I shall be arrested for Ronald Vale’s murder on the strength of that forged confession.” “You have nothing to do but deny it.” “True! but what if the world refuses to believe me? They might say I made the confession while I believed myself dying, but on recovering am trying to skulk out of it.” “They would have to prove that you made the confession, and the paper says that the sailor cannot be found, although detectives have been placed on his track.” Francis Murray remained gravely thoughtful for some time, then said, with a deep sigh: “Things look very black against me now, and the mystery of Ronald Vale’s murder is enveloped in a network more puzzling than ever. I begin to see dimly that Italy was right in believing her mother innocent, although I, too--Heaven pardon me!--scarcely doubted her guilt. But I was wrong, all wrong, and I must undo the past by the future. Yes, I will track down the villain and forger who has laid this guilt upon me, and while working to clear myself, I will strike a blow in Mrs. Vale’s defense, too. I have a plan, Emmett, and I know you will help me to carry it out.” CHAPTER XXII. MRS. VALE SHOCKS HER DAUGHTER. December snows lay deep and white all over Boston, but the sky was deeply blue, the sun was shining bright, and the merry jingle of the Christmas sleigh-bells filled the air with music. In the small but dainty drawing-room of a pretty house on one of Boston’s principal avenues, a mother and daughter sat at the lace-draped window watching the gay vehicles flashing past. Mrs. Vale had coldly declined Mrs. Murray’s invitation to Winthrop, and had made a home for herself and Italy in an aristocratic neighborhood in Boston. Here they had become the recipients of social attentions from the élite of the city. Friends of old flocked around the returned exile, trying to atone for the cruelty of the past. And on this beautiful Christmas morn the drawing-room was littered with elegant gifts and fragrant flowers, kindly tokens from loving hearts of friends. Mrs. Vale was not yet forty, and looked much younger in spite of the trials she had borne. Her rich, golden hair showed no trace of silver, and there were few lines of age on her delicate face, only an expression that somehow showed that, for her, the fulness of life was over. The settled sadness of her pale, clear face was in deep contrast to the subtile unrest of her daughter’s, with its deep, passionate eyes and proud, red lips. Between the mother and daughter there was one tabooed subject. It was Francis Murray.