'Will you tell the fellow,' and Maurice St. Mabyn still spoke to his brother, 'that a motor-car will be placed at his disposal to take him to any place he chooses to go. Tell him, too, that I do not propose to--to have anything to do with him in any way unless he persists in hanging on to you; but that if he does, the War Office and the world shall know what he is, and what he has done.' Still Springfield did not give in. He turned again to Lorna Bolivick, and as he did so I realized, as I never realized before, that the man really loved her. I believed then, as I believe now, that all his hopes, all his plottings, were centred in one desire, and that was to win the love of this girl. 'Miss Bolivick, Lorna,' he said hoarsely, 'you do not tell me to go, do you? You believe in me? I will admit that things look against me; but I swear to you that I am as innocent of their charges as you are; that--that----' He ceased speaking suddenly, as though his words were frozen on his lips, then he burst out like a man in agony, 'Why do you look at me like that?' he gasped. But she did not speak. Instead, she stood still, and looked at him steadily. There was an unearthly expression in her eyes; she seemed to be trying to look into his soul, to read his innermost thoughts. For a few seconds there was a deathly silence, then with a quick movement she turned and left the room. Again Springfield looked from face to face as if he were hoping for support; then I saw pride flash into his eyes. 'Lady Bolivick, Sir Thomas,' he said quietly, 'I am deeply sorry that this--this scene should have taken place. As you know I am not responsible. Thank you for your kind hospitality.' Then he turned and left the room, and a few seconds later we heard his footsteps on the gravel outside. CHAPTER XL MAURICE ST. MABYN'S GENEROSITY Of what happened afterwards, and of the explanations which were given, it is not for me to write. They do not come within the scope of this history, and would be scarcely of interest to the reader. One thing, however; specially interested me, and that was the large-heartedness of Maurice St. Mabyn. He refused to allow his brother to attempt any explanation, although I felt sure he understood what his brother had done. 'Of course you could not help believing me dead, George,' he said with a laugh. 'That fellow Springfield sent home and brought home all sorts of circumstantial evidence, and you naturally took things over. No, not another word. The fellow has gone, and I'll see that he stays away.' 'But--but why didn't you write, Maurice?' stammered the other. 'Couldn't, my dear chap. For more than two years I was away from civilization; for six months I was a prisoner among the Turks; and when at length, after the taking of Baghdad I was released, I was too ill to do anything, Besides, I thought Jack Carbis would have set your minds at rest. But there, I shall have a great yarn to tell you later.'