"Yes, and you did, Mary."
"Yes, I did. And then I begged her to tell me the truth. I made her see who I suspected."
"Yes, and then——" he whispered.
"I don't know what it was, whether it was the shock of my words, or whether it was because she could no longer stand the strain she had been suffering, but her senses forsook her, and—oh, Paul! forgive me—but she's been ill ever since. She's had no knowledge of anything that's been going on."
He was silent a moment, then he said: "It's best so, Mary. If she does not know she cannot suffer, and no shame can attach to her name now."
"No, Paul; but I haven't told you all yet. It wasn't she who did it! She was as ignorant of the crime as I was!"
"How? Tell me!" he almost gasped.
She related the story of what took place between her father and the man Archie Fearn, while he, with hoarse whispers, besieged her with questions.
"Thank God!" he said at length. It seemed as though a great burden had gone from his life, and as though the only way in which he could express his feelings was by thanking the Being in Whom he had said he had no belief.
"Paul, could you have saved yourself if you had known this?"