“Because I must,” Sydney broke out, as passionately as he could in restrained tones. “Don’t you understand that the money which belongs to Maurice Darley I have been diverting to other uses? It was left to him by Mr. Tyler, but I tore up the will. He made it about three hours after another one, in which he had left everything to the woman who had acted as a mother to me for twenty years. “He was a vacillating old man. I felt that he might change his mind back again if he should live three hours longer, so when he was dead I tore up the last will. I alone knew what it contained, and I have been a miserable man ever since.” Sydney bowed his head on his hands, and there was silence in the little room for a moment or two. “You—you are a criminal, then?” said the old lady presently. Sydney winced at the term, but at the same time he felt a sense of relief, as one does after taking a plunge into cold water. At any rate the shock of the first contact was over. “Yes, I suppose I am,” he answered. “And I am ready to suffer the penalty. The only excuse I have to offer is the fact that what I did, I did not for myself, but for those I love, who have done so much for me. And now it is not joy, but misery, I shall bring them.” “You are repentant, though,” murmured the old lady softly. “It is not as if you were hardened and only gave up when some one else found it out and forced you to. There is hope for you in that. But how much money is there?” “Nearly half a million. But some of it has been used, put into a house, which of course will be given up to Mr. Darley.” “Then you will take him away from me?” It was almost a wail with which the old lady said this. “No, you can come with him, of course.” “No. It will be his taking care of me then, and that will be so different. Oh, why did you come to disturb us?” She seemed quite forgetful for the time of the presence of any one else in the room, of her own caution to Sydney to speak quietly. Suddenly she appeared to recollect this latter necessity. She ceased the half moaning she had begun and clutched Sydney’s arm tightly. “I suppose,” she whispered, “that it would not be right to ask you to keep this money?” “I can’t keep it,” Sydney replied. “I have suffered enough from it already.” “But how can you give it to a man who is not in his right mind? He thinks he is a wealthy man. I have given him a quantity of gilt paper to play with. He is like a child, you know. The possession of real money will not make him any happier.” “But there is the son,” suggested Sydney. “I told you he was dead.” “I am not so sure of that. I think I have seen him. Would he not be about seventeen now?” “Yes, and you have seen him?” It was with difficulty the old lady kept her tones within bounds. “But you cannot be sure it is the same,” she went on. “No. I cannot be certain, but I am pretty sure.” “Perhaps he looks like his father. Wait, I think I can find a picture of him in the dark.”