Cat's Meat shook his harness as much as to say, “Now you're sorry, I suppose. What did I tell you?” Peter, as the cab grew dim in the distance, leant against the wall sobbing. The door at the top of the steps opened timidly and Miss Leah looked out. “Peter. Peter.” But he couldn't bear to face her. As he stole home through the unreal shadows, he tried to persuade himself that it hadn't happened. It must be his old disease--his 'magination. It was as though he had been playing with fear all this while and now he experienced its actuality. It hadn't happened, hadn't---- Then the pity of the pinched unshaven face, the huddled shoulders and the iron hardness of the world overwhelmed him. And Uncle Waffles hadn't said a word when he was taken--he hadn't even coughed. CHAPTER XXIII--AND GLORY SAID Peter asked to see his father alone. They went up together to the study. Barrington knew that a confession was coming. He was curious. Peter's sins were so extraordinary; they were hardly ever breaches of the decalogue. His sensitive conscience had framed a lengthier code of commandments, which no one but he would dream of observing. Barrington struggled to keep his face grave and long; inwardly he was laughing. He drew up his big chair to the fire--his soldier's chair the children called it. He put out his knee invitingly. “Sit down, little son. What's the trouble?” “I'd rather stand, father. You'll never want to speak to me again when I've told you.” Barrington observed Peter's pallor and the way his hands kept folding and unfolding. “It can't be as bad as that, old man. Nothing could be.” “But it is, father. I'm a thief and a liar, and I expect I'll be arrested before morning.” Peter's tense sincerity carried conviction. This time there was certainly something the matter. “Well, Peter, I'll forgive you before you tell me. Now speak up like a little knight. The bravest thing in all the world is to tell the whole truth when it's easy to lie.--Queer things have been happening lately. It's about those Christmas presents, now, isn't it?” Peter stood erect with his hands behind him, his curly head thrown back and his knickerbockered legs close together. “You mustn't be kind to me, father. It makes it harder. I'm going to hurt you.” Barrington had never felt prouder of his son. He rested his chin on his fingers and nodded. “Go on.” In a low, tremulous voice he told him all, keeping the tears back bravely. When he paused, his father waited; he wanted to hear Peter's own story without frightening him by interruption. He had had an important engagement that evening, but he let it slide. As the account progressed he saw that here was something really serious. And yet how Peterish it was to feel so poignantly the unjust punishing of Romance! The humor of it all vanished when Peter told how Uncle Waffles had been arrested.