She did not answer, and Oakley, taking her silence for assent, continued: “I don't suppose it was told you either that he was pardoned because of an act of conspicuous heroism, that, at the risk of his own life, he saved the lives of several nurses and patients in the hospital ward of the prison where he was confined.” He looked inquiringly at Constance, but she was still silent. “Miss Emory, my father came to me to all intents an absolute stranger. Why, I even feared him, for I didn't know the kind of man he was, but I have come to have a great affection and regard for him. I respect him, too, most thoroughly. There is not an hour of the day when the remembrance of his crime is not with him. Don't you think it cowardly that it should have been ventilated simply to hurt me, when it must inevitably hurt him so much more? He has quit work in the shops, and he is determined to leave Antioch. I may find him gone when I return to the hotel.” “And you blame Mr. Ryder for this?” “I do. It's part of the debt we'll settle some day.” “Then you are unjust. It was Mr. Kenyon. His cousin is warden of the prison. He saw your father there and remembered him.” “And told Mr. Ryder,” with a contemptuous twist of the lips. “There were others present at the time. They were not alone.” “But Mr. Ryder furnished the men with the facts.” “How do you know?” And once more her tone was one of defiance and defence. “I have been told so, and I have every reason to believe I was correctly informed. Why, don't you admit that it was a cowardly piece of business to strike at me over my father's shoulder?” demanded Oakley, with palpable exasperation. The narrowness of her nature and her evasions galled him. Why didn't she show a little generous feeling. He expected she would be angry at his words and manner. On the contrary, she replied: “I am not defending Mr. Ryder, as you seem to think, but I do not believe in condemning any one as you would condemn him--unheard.” She was unduly conscious, perhaps, that sound morality was on her side in this. “Let us leave him out of it. After all, it is no odds who told. The harm is done.” “No, I shall ask Griff.” Dan smiled, doubtfully. “That will settle it, if you believe what he tells you.” “His denial will be quite sufficient for me, Mr. Oakley,” with chilly politeness. There was a long pause, during which Dan looked at the carpet, and Miss Emory at nothing in particular. He realized how completely he had separated himself from the rest of the world in her eyes. The hopelessness of his love goaded him on. He turned to her with sudden gentleness and said, penitently: “Won't you forgive me?” “I have nothing to forgive, Mr. Oakley,” with lofty self-denial, and again Dan smiled doubtfully. Her saying so did not mean all it should have meant to him. He swept his hand across his face with a troubled gesture. “I don't know what to do,” he observed, ruefully. “The turf seems knocked from under my feet.”