“I fear matters are worse with poor Leopold than I had imagined,” he said. Helen gave a sad nod of acquiescence. “He’s quite off his head,” continued George, “--telling me such an awful cock-and-bull story with the greatest gravity! He WILL have it that he is a murderer--the murderer of that very girl I was telling you about, you remember,--” “Yes, yes! I know,” said Helen, as a faint gleam of reviving hope shot up from below her horizon. George took the whole thing for a sick fancy, and who was likely to know better than he--a lawyer, and skilled in evidence? Not a word would she say to interfere with such an opinion! “I hope you gave him a good talking-to,” she said. “Of course I did,” he answered; “but it was of no use. I see exactly how it is. He gave me a full and circumstantial account of the affair, filling up all the gaps, it is true, but going only just as far as the newspapers supplied the skeleton. How he got away, for instance, he could not tell me. And now nothing will serve him but confess it! He don’t care who knows it! He’s as mad as a hatter!--I beg your pardon, Helen--on that one point, I mean. The moment I saw him I read madness in his eye!--What’s to be done now?” “George, I look to you,” said Helen. “Poor aunt is of no use. Think what will become of her, if the unhappy boy should attempt to give himself up! We should be the talk of the county--of the whole country!” “Why didn’t you tell me of this before, Helen? It must have been coming on for some time.” “George, I didn’t know what to do. And I had heard you say such terrible things about the duty of punishing crime.” “Good gracious, Helen! where is your logic? What has crime to do with it! Is down-right stark-staring madness a crime? Anyone with half an eye can see the boy is mad!” Helen saw she had made a slip, and held her peace. George went on:-- “He ought to be shut up.” “No! no! no!” Helen almost screamed, and covered her face with her hands. “I’ve done my best to persuade him. But I will have another try. That a fellow is out of his mind is no reason why he should be unassailable by good logic--that is, if you take him on his own admissions.” “I fear you will make nothing of him, George. He is set upon it, and I don’t know what IS to be done.” George got up, went back to Leopold, and plied him with the very best of arguments. But they were of no avail. There was for him but one door out of hell, and that was the door of confession--let what might lie on the other side of it. “Who knows,” he said, “but the law of a life for a life may have come of compassion for the murderer?” “Nonsense!” said George. “It comes of the care of society over its own constituent parts.” “Whatever it came from, I know this,” returned Leopold, “that, since I made up my mind to confess, I am a man again.”