A shiver of dread and misery ran through him as her bright little face crossed his mind, and he saw that by keeping silence till the discovery--for that must come--he would be so implicated that he would share his friend's arrest; and, even if matters did not turn out serious with him as far as the law was concerned, his position with the admiral's family would be the same as Stratton's--everything would be at an end--his love affair like that of the miserable man before him; the man who now turned to him with a scared, horrified, hunted look in his eyes, startled by Guest's advance. It was time to speak, Guest thought, but the words would not come at first, and he could only gaze wildly at the wretched being before him, and think of their old schooldays together, then of their first fresh manhood, and always together, sharing purses, pleasures, troubles, full confidence always till this trouble had come. For the moment he hated and loathed the man before him; but the feeling was momentary. Stratton would not wilfully have thrust himself into such a position. He felt that there must be something more than he knew, and, softening down, he said huskily: "Well, Stratton, what have you to say?" There was no answer. Stratton gazed at him with a far-off, fixed stare, full of helpless misery, which drew his friend far nearer in heart, and he spoke more freely now. "Come," he said; "speak out. In spite of everything, I am your old friend. I want to help you. Will you trust me?" "Trust you? Yes," said Stratton slowly. "Tell me, then, everything, beginning from the morning when you were to be married." Stratton slowly shook his head. "Come, man; this is no time for reticence. Tell me all," cried Guest excitedly; and he spoke in a hoarse whisper, and glanced to door and window, as if afraid of being overheard. There was the same desponding movement. "Am I not worthy of your confidence? I tell you I am ready to share it--ready to help you if you will only be honest with me, and tell me frankly everything." There was no reply. "Stratton, old fellow," cried Guest piteously, "you must speak. I do not believe that you could have been intentionally guilty." Stratton glanced at him quickly, but the eager look died out. "I tell you that you are injuring me as well as yourself. You have blighted your life; for God's sake don't blight mine, too." "What--what do you mean?" cried Stratton, who started as if stung at his friend's reference to his future, and when the appeal came, took a step or two forward. "That, knowing what I do, compelled from our old associations to be silent, I cannot--dare not go near her again." "Guest!" "I have said it. How can I take her innocent hand?" "Because you know nothing," cried Stratton excitedly; "because you shall know nothing. One is enough to bear a crime, if crime it was." "Ah! You confess!" cried Guest; "then you did--kill him."