a moment. Charles went to him.

"You have nothing to do with it." He touched his brother's bowed head. "I am going, whether you consent or not. I am going to-night. When I am missed in the morning that will tell the tale. You won't even have to explain. They will sympathize so much with you that they will not ask you many questions. Oh, it is all right now! You will have a chance to pay a just debt and I'll have a chance to make a new life for myself. They can't catch me, Billy. I know how to dodge the slickest detectives on my trail. The world is big and full of adventures. Do you know, Billy, I have always been haunted with the idea of freedom like this? Don't you worry. I'll be all right, whatever happens. And listen, Billy. I swear to you by the memory of our mother that I'll never tell a living soul of this agreement of ours. Never!"

William raised his head. He clasped his brother's hands and pressed them convulsively. "Oh," he gulped, "if I want to escape my just punishment, forgive me—forgive me, Charlie, for I am afraid of death. I have faced it for more than a week. It is an awful thing to think of all that it means, its effect on Lessie and the baby. Oh, Charlie, Charlie!" His lower lip was twisted by suppressed emotion. His eyes were filling with tears.

"I am going. That is settled," Charles said, with feeling. "And there is no time to lose. I'll hurry home and pack a few things. There is a train for New York at midnight. I can hide there safely enough for a while. I know the ropes. Good-by, old chap."

William stood up. He clung to his brother's hands for a moment, then put his arms around him. "Good-by," he gulped. "I hate to let you do it, but I am a coward—not only a thief, but a weakling and a coward. You must have money. Wait. I'll—"

"No, no, Billy." The other shook his head. "I sha'n't take a cent from the bank, under any consideration. You must begin anew as I am going to begin anew. You will owe to these men every cent you can get till that debt is paid. Besides, I have a little money and I shall not need much, for I am going to work for my living. I'll find something to do. It won't be an indoor job like this, for I am tired of it. I want to use my body instead of my brain. I want to tramp from place to place in the open sunlight and free air. I want to be a hobo. I want to put myself down on the level of the most unfortunate of men. I want to wring the poison of my past out of me. This chance seems a godsend to me. It will save Lessie and little Ruth from great sorrow and humiliation, and you from a desperate act. Life is a short thing, anyway, isn't it, Billy? Don't ever expect to hear from me again. In addition to the risk, it will be best for your state of mind. Think of me as dead."

William made a feeble effort to detain him, but he was gone. The banker heard him softly closing the big front door, and he sank back into his chair, tingling under a growing sense of vast relief. To be sure, he was losing his only brother, but he was retaining countless other things. He told himself that the plan was a marvelous one. Every flagrant act of his dissipated brother gave color to the implied charge against him, while his own high standing and the agreement of restitution he was to make would lift him above all possible suspicion.

CHAPTER V

Outside, the sky was clear. The stars were coming out. Their light was pale by contrast to the street-lamps. A cool breeze fanned Charles's hot face as he made his way with a step that was almost buoyant toward the Common. Some students on one of the walks were singing a college song he used to love in those gay days which now seemed so far away.

He was passing a little wine-room where he had been fond of going with certain friends, and almost by habit he paused and faced its lighted windows. Then he was conscious again of that strange experience which had immediately followed the tragic revelation his brother had made to him. He had no desire to drink. He laughed as he turned and strode onward across the street to the Common. Was there really such a thing as a new birth in which, under stress of some rare spiritual experience, a man was completely changed? It might really be so, he told himself, for nothing like this had ever come to him before. He was happy. Indeed, something like ecstasy had come upon him; it was in his very veins, hovering over him like indescribable light. He thought of William's dumb look of relief, and a joyous sob rose and hung in his throat. It was pain and yet it was not pain. How wonderfully beautiful the whole world seemed! There was really nothing out of order. Till a few minutes ago all was meaningless chaos and tragic despair, and yet now—now—he could not put it into words. He thought of the action of the club which had turned him out, and smiled. Why, the officials were merely puppets of convention, and he had been a naughty child. The police court! How funny the grave, fat judge looked as he delivered that fatherly lecture and imposed that fine! Oh, it was all in life, and life was a mosaic of rare beauty!

When he reached Beacon Street a night policeman was on the corner. Charles saluted him and gave him a cigar. "Fine night, fine night!" he said.

"It is indeed," the man answered.

Charles found the house dark, save for the gas which was turned low in the hall. He let himself in softly, and ascended the thickly carpeted stairs to his room. Turning on the electric light, he looked about him. He must hurry.

"Yes, I'll write a note and leave it here for William," he reflected. "It will help him explain to-morrow. He need only direct the examiner's attention to it, and they will understand, or think they understand."

He sat down at a little table, drew some paper toward him, and began to write.

My Dear Brother [ran the note],—When you get this I shall be gone. I need not explain. When the examiners get to the vaults they will see why I had to leave. I have been going from bad to worse, as every one knows. I have abused your confidence, love, and hospitality. You will never see me again. Sixty thousand dollars is a large amount, I know, but on my honor I am not taking all of it with me. Most of it is gone already. Good-by.

C.

He put the note into an envelope, sealed it, and directed it to his brother. He had just done so when he heard a soft step on the stairs leading down from the servants' rooms above. There was a rap on the door. He opened it. It was Michael.

"I thought I heard you come in," Michael said, lamely. "I was about to go to bed, sir. But is there anything I can do for you to-night—a cup of something to drink—coffee or tea?"

"Not to-night, Mike," Charles answered. "The truth is that I am off for Springfield—on a little business of my own. I must get away at once. I may have to stay there a short while—several days, in fact, and I want to pack a few things. Pull out my dress-suit case from the closet, will you, and dust it off. Then put in half a dozen shirts and underwear."

"Your evening suit, sir?"

"No, oh no, not that," Charles smiled. "I'm not going into society on this trip. I'll get out what I need."

Taking the articles from a drawer of the bureau, Charles tossed them on the bed near the suitcase which the servant had brushed and opened. "Put them in, please, Mike. It will save time."

The suitcase was packed and locked. Charles suddenly observed that Mike was eying the addressed envelope curiously.

"Oh, that note?" the young man said, averting his eyes oddly. "That is for my brother. Will you hand it to him—not to-night, I mean—at the breakfast-table in the morning? Don't fail, Mike. It is rather important."

The servant took it up. He held it tentatively. He hesitated. "He does not know that you are going, sir?" he asked.

Charles stared straight at the floor. "This will tell him all that he need know, Mike."