"Something crooked!" The words rang in Hodder's ears, in his very soul. How was he or any man to estimate, to unravel the justice from the injustice, to pass upon the merit of this woman's punishment? Here again, in this vitiated life, was only to be seen the remorseless working of law--cause and effect. Crooked! Had not the tree been crooked from the beginning--incapable of being straightened? She had herself naively confessed it. Was not the twist ingrained? And if so, where was the salvation he had preached? There was good in her still,--but what was "good"? . . . He took no account of his profound compassion. What comfort could he give her, what hope could he hold out that the twist, now gnarled and knotted, might be removed, that she might gain peace of soul and body and the "happiness" of which he had talked with Alison Parr? . . . He raised his eyes, to discover that the woman's were fixed upon him, questioningly. "I suppose I was a fool to tell you," she said, with a shade of her old bitterness; "it can't do any good." Her next remark was startlingly astute. "You've found out for yourself, I guess, that all this talk about heaven and hell and repentance don't amount to anything. Hell couldn't be any worse than I've been through, no matter how hot it is. And heaven!" She laughed, burst into tears, and quickly dried them. "You know the man I've been talking about, that bought me off. I didn't intend to tell you, but I see you can't help knowing--Eldon Parr. I don't say he didn't do right from his way of looking at things,--but say, it wasn't exactly Christian, was it?" "No," he said, "it wasn't." He bowed his head, and presently, when he raised it again, he caught something in her look that puzzled and disturbed him--an element of adoration. "You're white through and through," she said, slowly and distinctly. And he knew not how to protest. "I'll tell you something," she went on, as one who has made a discovery. "I liked you the first time you came in here--that night--when you wanted me to be friends; well, there was something that seemed to make it impossible then. I felt it, if you didn't." She groped for words. "I can't explain what it was, but now it's gone. You're different. I think a lot more of you. Maybe it's because of what you did at Harrod's, sitting down with me and giving me supper when I was so hungry, and the champagne. You weren't ashamed of me." "Good God, why should I have been!" he exclaimed. "You! Why shouldn't you?" she cried fiercely. "There's hardly a man in that place that wouldn't have been. They all know me by sight--and some of 'em better. You didn't see 'em grinning when I came up to you, but I did. My God--it's awful--it's awful I...." She burst into violent weeping, long deferred. He took her hand in his, and did not speak, waiting for the fit to spend itself . . . . And after a while the convulsive shudders that shook her gradually ceased.