He got suddenly afoot and raised his hands on high. "I tell you, Hugh!" he cried, with eyes afire, "there is no surer way to damnation, no surer path. We are born into this world for one strong purpose which is told us by our hearts if we will hear them. And this concerns ourselves not half so much as our potentialities of helping by their proper use the unborn spirits placed by Providence at our control and mercy. It is then for us to choose if we will be servants of the good, to assist in their perfection, or the servants of the evil to promote their desolation and to advance the stages of their ruin. No human being has the right to bring any but a love child into the world. That which is not a love child is a child of hate. There is no course between. And because the father of a child of hate is a criminal for whom there is no punishment conceivable, to a finite mind, acute enough on earth his expiation of his crime will but begin at death. You laugh at me." "On the contrary," I answered gravely, "I accord with you." "Then you admit my duty. I should stand aside?" "Ay--but first be sure, my friend! You love your wife; she may love you." "I am sure that she does not. But you? It is time, Hugh, that you answered me." I stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. "I love with all my strength another woman," I said slowly. "And just as sure I am that I love her am I that she loves me. Are you answered?" He stared at me, and in the moment that my eyes held his, his face grew dull and grey. "My poor Helen," he muttered, "I had hoped to help her to her happiness." "At--any cost?" I demanded. "Yes, yes," he said. "Death?" "I would have welcomed it," he groaned, and turning, he went slowly from the room. He walked like an old, old man. I had never admired him so little, nor liked and pitied him so much. Straightway I wrote a note to Lady Helen and, going out, posted it myself. It contained only these three words: "It is time." I could trust a woman of her proven cleverness to understand. Chapter XXII The Dead Hand I expected Miss Ottley next afternoon, and Hubbard, as though aware I wished to be alone, went out soon after three. But she did not come. Hubbard returned an hour after midnight. He kept me awake by tramping about his room until far into the small hours. Next morning I found the library filled with corded boxes and Hubbard's man padlocking the last of them. "Master's gone to France, and I'm to follow," he announced with an air of suppressed exultation. "He left this letter for you."