"Well, he was wrong about _that_," said Charles, seeing her drift. "There were certain men in the circus who left about the time I did, and there were warrants out for their arrest. I was not one of them. I left for fear that certain questions regarding my identity might be put to me that I could not answer, and for the additional reason that I was sick of the life I was leading. The--the offense with which I am charged dates further back. I did not think that I'd ever have to tell you these things, but I find that I must. I am not a safe man for you to know--certainly not a man worthy of--of the things you have said to-night. This living here and helping you a little has been like heaven to me, but it can't go on. I am a misfit in life. I am an outcast for all time. You may be holding a sort of ideal of me--women in their deep purity will do those things sometimes--but I must undeceive you. You must see me as I really am. I was a drunkard, a gambler--disgraced in the town I lived in, expelled from the clubs I belonged to, found guilty in court; I came away to hide myself from the eyes of all who knew me. The new life has changed me to some extent. I see things differently. I think I have a keener moral sense. Adversity seems to have awakened it in me, but Fate is punishing me severely, for the consequences of my past, it will always--always stand between me and the things I now want." Mary still clung to his hand. Through his desperate recital she had looked steadfastly into his eyes. "I don't care what you have been," she said, under her breath. "It is what you are now that counts with me. The greatest men and the best in history have made mistakes when they were young. It is for you to judge whether--whether we can ever be anything more to each other than we are now. I don't think it amounts to much which it is, if only we love each other. That is the main thing. I don't know how you feel, but I can never love any other man--never!" He lowered his head, but she saw that his eyes were ablaze. "I think"--he was speaking now very earnestly, very despondently--"that I shall leave you as soon as my summer's work is over--that is, if you are out of your trouble by then. I could not go while you are so unhappy. I couldn't stand that." "Oh, you mustn't go!" she sobbed, pressing the back of his hand to her wet eyes. "Why need you go?" "Because the longer I stay the worse it will be for both of us, and I am afraid that my presence here will be discovered. I am using my own name. I never threw it off. I must not be taken here. There are a thousand reasons why I should avoid a chance of that. You are the main one." "Yes, that would kill me," she asserted. Almost unconsciously she kissed his hand, she fondled it as a mother might that of a dying child. "I couldn't live after that." Suddenly, and after a pause, she fixed her eyes on his face again. "I want you to do something for me," she faltered. "What is it?" he asked.