“That's a fact; I must go. Good-bye, old man.” Galt held on to Dearing's hand firmly, almost desperately. “Wait, I have something to say,” he began--“something that simply must be said.” “Good gracious, Wynn, hurry, hurry!” Doctor Beaman was heard calling out, impatiently. “You don't want to lie over in Atlanta. I'll have to go in a gallop, and _then_ may miss your train! Hurry!” “Wait, just a moment,” Galt implored. “Oh, I know you are sympathetic.” Dealing, misunderstanding, ran for his bag, with the wordless Galt shambling along at his side. “I couldn't have told you all that if you hadn't taken such a liking for the poor little kid. Good-bye, good-bye, only don't join the gang of fools that will laud that scamp to the skies when he comes--that is all I ask.” “But you _must_ listen!” Galt cried out. “I must tell you now that--” But Dearing had darted away. The gate closed after him, and Galt saw him climbing into the buggy even while it was in motion. “Well, he'll know it soon enough,” the lonely man thought. “The facts will come out now. Walton will hear the report when he gets back, and Dora will declare him innocent.” Galt went into the dimly lighted hallway of his house and ascended the stairs. There was nothing to do now, he told himself. The world that had admired him, the men and women who had entrusted him with the investment of their savings in his various schemes, would stare and doubt their senses. They would shun him--one and all they would shun him as they would some loathsome thing; he had used their money well, but their profit had been made by a man who had known no honor. He entered his room, turned up the light, and critically examined his ghastly image in the mirror on his bureau. What a gashed and blearing mask to all that lay behind it! How could it go on? How could he bear with it another day? Even if he could lay it aside in sleep to-night, the heartless dawn would reveal it all the more relentlessly. Suddenly out of the turmoil of his emotions a grim resolve rose and fastened itself on him. His suicide would be his confession--his belated exoneration of the man who so long had borne the stigma in his stead. In a small drawer in the bureau lay a revolver. It was loaded in all of its six chambers, and as he took the weapon out he almost fondled it in his clammy hand. In the morning his servants would find his body, and the truth would be out. He would close the door and windows that the revolver's report might be smothered. But he started; there was the child, his helpless child, to whom he had given life--and _such_ a life! “Lionel, Lionel!” he said, aloud. “My son, my son, my beautiful brave boy, who loves me in spite of what I have done against him! Will he grow up and understand? Will he pardon his misguided father, or blush for shame at the thought of him?”