She took a large packet from beneath her mantle, and placed it in my hands; then, giving me her address, and saying she would always be at home, or would call upon me at any time I might appoint, she left me to the perusal of the manuscript. But I did not apply myself to it immediately, beyond glancing at the opening words. Thinking I might be in time to see John Fordham brought up at the police court, I posted off to Marylebone, and there I found the case proceeding. Fordham was in the dock, a pale, worn man, with an expression on his face of one who had undergone much suffering. He looked like a gentleman, but I did not allow that to influence me, for I put no trust in appearances. There are men standing high in public esteem whose faces would condemn them if they were charged with a criminal offense; and guilt itself too often wears the aspect of innocence. Asked if he had anything to say, Fordham replied that he hoped to be able on his trial to make a statement, which would be accepted in extenuation of his crime; until that time arrived he would be silent, but if he could assist the police in any way, he was ready to do so. This unusual reply awoke within me a stronger interest in him, and I studied his features carefully; there was stamped upon them the expression of a man who had prepared himself for the worst. The police asked for a remand, which was granted, and he was taken back to the cells. As I issued from the court a cab drove up, and Miss Cameron alighted; she had taken a four-wheeler, and was too late for this preliminary examination. I hastened to her, and told her what had taken place. "Shall I be allowed to see him?" she asked. I said there would be no difficulty, but that it would be best to consult a solicitor. She mentioned the name of one who had acted for Fordham for several years, and I advised her to go to him. She thanked me and drove off, and I returned to my office to read John Fordham's Confession. If I were to attempt to describe at any length the impression it produced upon me I should fail. I am very fond of fiction, and I have read most of the leading novels of my time, but I doubt if I have ever read anything in which a man's trials and sorrows were more powerfully portrayed. I do not speak in a literary sense, for in that respect I am a poor judge, but the effect of this Confession upon me was startling. I seemed to see the man's heart and soul, and sometimes I lost sight of the fact that I was perusing a story of real life. The kind allusion to myself and the thoughtful suppression of my name affected me strongly, and John Fordham's description of the character of Ellen Cameron showed me what a treasure I had lost. But I should have been a despicable fellow to bear him any animosity for having won the love I sought, and I thought none the worse of him or Ellen Cameron for having thrown their lots together.