The appeal sickened him. He got up and walked away to the mantel where the candles were, and stood there leaning against the shelf. He heard her catch her breath, and knew she was near sobs. He came back to his chair, and his voice had resumed so much of its judicial tone that her breath grew stiller in accord. "Esther," said he, "you'd better tell me everything." "I can't," said she, "everything. You are--" the rest came in a startling gush of words--"you are the last man I could tell." It was a confession, a surrender, and he felt the tremendous weight of it. Was he the last man she could tell? Was she then, poor child, withholding herself from him as he, in decency, was aloof from her? He pulled himself together. "Perhaps I can't do anything for you," he said, "in my own person. But I can see that other people do. I can see that you have counsel." "Alston," said she, in what seemed to him a beautiful simplicity, "why can't you do anything for me?" This was so divinely childlike and direct that he had to tell her. "Esther, don't you see? If you have grounds for action against your husband, could I be the man to try your case? Could I? When you have just said I am the last man you could tell? I can't get you a divorce----" he stopped there. He couldn't possibly add, "and then marry you afterward." "I see," said Esther, yet raging against him inwardly. "You can't help me." "I can help you," said Alston. "But you must be frank with me. I must know whether you have any case at all. Now answer me quite simply and plainly. Does Jeff support you?" "Oh, no," said Esther. "He gives you no money whatever?" "None." "Then he's a bigger rascal than I've been able to think him." "I believe----" said Esther, and stopped. "What do you believe?" "I think the money must come from his father. He sends it to me." "Then there is money?" "Why, yes," said Esther irritably, "there's some money, or how could I live?" "But you told me there was none." "How do you think I could live here with grandmother and expect her to dress me? Grandmother's very old. She doesn't see the need of things." "It isn't a question of what you can live on," said Alston. "It's a question of Jeff's allowing you money, or not allowing you money. Does he, or does he not?" "His father sends me some," said Esther, in a voice almost inaudible. It sounded sulky. "Regularly?" "Yes, I suppose so." "Don't you know?" "Yes. He sends it regularly." "How often?" "Four times a year." "Haven't you every reason to believe that money is from Jeff?" "No," said Esther. "I haven't any reason to think so at all. His father signs the cheques." "Isn't it probable that his father would do that when Jeff was in prison, and that he should continue doing it now?"