Earle Wayne was not twenty-three years old.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and stalwart of form.
His face was the face of nature’s nobleman; a clear, dark skin, eyes of deep hazel, with hair of just a darker shade crowning a forehead broad, full, and at every point well developed.
His nose was somewhat large, and of the Roman type; his mouth sweet and gentle in expression, but full of manly strength and firmness; it had also now something of sadness in its lines, from the long term of cruel endurance and restraint which he had undergone.
But his step was as free and proud, his head as erect, his gaze as clear and unflinching as before any one had dared to accuse him of having robbed his fellow-man, or he had served a criminal’s sentence.
And why not?
He had not sinned; he had done no wrong; he had never wilfully harmed a human being in all his life. His own conscience told him he was as true and noble a man at heart as any that walked the earth; and he would not sacrifice his self-respect because, upon circumstantial evidence, he had been obliged to serve out a sentence in a State prison for another man’s crime.
He returned to the city that had been his home before his imprisonment, and where he had served three pleasant years with Richard Forrester, and where now, since he was dead and gone, he had no hope of having a friendly hand extended to him. His first night he spent in a quiet, but respectable hotel, and slept restfully and well.
The next morning Mr. Felton wended his way, with the all-important document which Editha desired in his pocket, to Mr. Dalton’s residence on ——th street.
He meant to have attended to it before, but had been unexpectedly called from town on business the morning after Editha’s visit to him, and had had no time until then to go to her.