He passed his hand across his eyes, threw up his head, and seemed more like the old Malcolm Stratton, as he held out his hand to his friend, took that which was eagerly extended to him, and the two men sat, hand grasped in hand, silently for the space of some minutes. Brettison was the first to speak. "Then you think, in spite of all, I did wisely?" "I think you saved that man's life," said Stratton with a faint, sad smile upon his lip. "But for you I must have gone to the grave with that knowledge always on my brain. You have spared me that. I can sleep without waking to think of that man's blood being on my hands." "And there is hope for you yet," whispered Brettison earnestly. "Where?" said Stratton mournfully. "In the other world?" "Bah! Despairing at your age? Why, man, this life is full of change and surprise. Nothing comes to pass so often as the unexpected." Stratton shook his head. "What! Doubting, in the face of all I have told you just now? Why, man, my news must have come upon you like a miracle. Come, I shall see you and Myra happy yet." "Silence!" cried Stratton sternly. "Impossible! All that is past. Brettison, I accept my fate in all thankfulness for what I know. If Myra and I ever meet again, I can take her hand and look her calmly in the eyes. I know my position now; and, thank God, I am once more a man--free from the great horror of my life. Now, tell me. The man recovered from his wound?" "Yes," said Brettison, looking at Stratton curiously, "he is quite recovered from that; only much changed." "You have seen him lately, then?" cried Stratton eagerly. "Yes; not many hours since." "Brettison!" "Yes? Why do you start like that?" "Then you have not handed him over to the authorities?" "No. Why should I?" "Man, you ask me that? You leave him free to go yonder and make her life a burden?" "I did not say so," replied Brettison calmly. "Suppose I had handed the man over to the authorities, what then? The news would have been in every paper of the convict's marvellous escape from death. Pleasant reading for the Bourne Square breakfast table. Surely that poor girl has suffered enough?" Stratton gazed at him wildly. "I thought it all out, and I said to myself: `James Dale, or Barron, died that night to the world, when he escaped from the convict prison. Why should I bring him to life? For everyone's sake, let him be dead still.'" "Impossible!" cried Stratton. "The man will take advantage of his freedom, and Myra's position must become intolerable. You have done wrong, sir. He must be given up at once." "But the knowledge of what has passed must reach Myra's ears, and the pain and agony of spirit it will cause will be more than she can bear." Stratton groaned. "And don't you see you are cutting the last piece of ground from beneath your feet--letting yourself sink at once into a slough of despond?"