Helen moved to David's side, and gazed straight into Mr. Haddon's accusing face. Indignation was replacing her astoundment; her cheeks were tingeing with red. "What, would you condemn a man upon mere guess-work!" she cried. "Merely because the money is not there, is that proof that Mr. Aldrich took it? Do you call this justice, Mr. Haddon?" Mr. Haddon's look did not alter, and he did not reply. The opinion of womankind he had ever considered negligible. Helen turned to David and gave him her hand. "I believe you." He thanked her with a look. "It must have been Mr. Morton," she said. Her words first thrilled him. Then suddenly they rang out as a knell. If he threw off the guilt, it must fall on Morton; if Morton were publicly guilty, then the hundreds of the Mission-- Mr. Haddon's hard voice broke in, changeless belief in its tone: "Mr. Aldrich took it." David looked at Mr. Haddon, looked whitely at Helen. And then the great Thought was conceived, struggled dizzily, painfully, into birth. He stood shivering, awed, before it.... He slowly turned and walked to a window and gazed down into the street, filled with children hurrying home from school. The Thought spoke to him in vivid flashes. He had no relatives, almost no friends. He loved Helen Chambers; but he was nobody and a beggar. He had not done anything--perhaps could never do anything--and even if he did, his work would probably be of little worth. He had wanted his life to be of service; had wanted to sell it, as it were, for the largest good he could perform. Well, here were the people of St. Christopher's toppling over the edge of destruction. Here was his Great Bargain--the chance to sell his life for the highest price. As to what he had done with the five thousand, which of course he'd be asked--well, an evening of gambling would be a sufficient explanation. He turned about. "Well?" said Mr. Haddon. David avoided Helen's look. He felt himself borne upward to the apex of life. "Yes ... I took it," he said. BOOK II THE CLOSED ROAD CHAPTER I DAVID RE-ENTERS THE WORLD The history of the next four years of David's life is contained in the daily programme of Croton Prison. At six o'clock the rising gong sounded; David rolled out of his iron cot, washed himself at the faucet in his cell, and got into his striped trousers and striped jacket. At six-thirty he lock-stepped, with a long line of fellows, to a breakfast of hash, bread and coffee. At seven he marched to shoe factory or foundry, where he laboured till twelve, when the programme called him to dinner. At one he marched back to work; at half-past five he marched to his cell, where his supper of bread and coffee was thrust in to him through a wicket. He read or paced up and down till nine, when the going out of his light sent him into his iron cot. Multiply this by fifteen hundred and the product is David's prison life.