"Yes, I'll tell you how it was," he continued. Then he gave me an account of the killing of Roger Wentworth, the particulars of which I then learned for the first time. I allowed him to proceed in his narrative without interruption, and he finished by saying: "I learned that same evening that a thousand pounds had been stolen from a traveller. I suspected Crofts, Wentworth, and Berkeley of the robbery, but I did not know certainly that they had committed the crime, since I did not see them do it. The next morning I learned that a man had been killed by highwaymen, and as I felt sure that the murder had been committed in the affair I had witnessed, I went to France because I did not want to be called to testify in case criminal proceedings were instituted. In France I learned that the murdered man was young Wentworth's uncle. "Of course, I did not receive a farthing of the money, but I almost felt that I was accessory before the fact because I had not hastened to prevent the crime, and after the fact because I had made no effort to bring the criminals to justice. Churchill told me flatly that I should be alone if I tried the latter, and said that he was not so great a fool as to win the enmity of the king by attempting to bring the law upon Crofts. You know Churchill's maxim, 'A fool conscience and a fool damned.'" "There is wisdom in it," I answered. "I suppose there is," returned Hamilton. "I wanted the thousand pounds to pay Roger Wentworth's widow, so I won it in France, brought it to England, and yesterday sent it by a trusted messenger to Sundridge. Of course the widow does not know where it came from." "It was like you, George," said I. "One does not do a thing of that sort for sake of a reward, but, believe me, the reward always comes." "It was the right thing to do," he answered. "But instead of the reward comes now the keenest grief I have ever known, the loss of the small regard in which I was one time held by the only woman I ever loved or ever shall love." He stopped speaking, but I fancied he had not finished, so I did not interrupt him. I had so much to say in return that I did not care to begin until I had a clear field. He was becoming restless, and I could see that the fever was mounting rapidly. After a long pause he continued:-- "But, in a way, the loss of her regard is the least of my troubles, and I should bear it with equanimity, for if I am honest with her, I would not desire to keep it, as I can bring her no happiness. It is the loss of my respect for her, the knowledge that I was wrong in deeming her better than other women, the humiliation of learning that I was a pitiable dupe in giving my love to one who could give herself to Charles Stuart, that hurts."