been resorted to, so Thomas smiled as he turned away with a cheery:

"Very well, sir; but there will be no need, I hope."

"Good-night, Thomas. Raise the shade, please. It's a splendid night,
isn't it? If they should build on that rear lot I could not see the moon
so well. I may decide to buy that property."

When Thomas had gone and he was alone at last, Truedale heaved a heavy
sigh. It seemed to relieve the restraint under which he had been
labouring for weeks.

All his life the possibility of escape from his bondage had made the
bondage less unendurable. It was like knowing of a secret passage from
his prison house--an exit dark and attended by doubts and fears, but
nevertheless a sure passage to freedom. It had seemed, in the past, a
cowardly thing to avail himself of his knowledge--it was like going
with his debts unpaid. But now, in the bright, moonlit room it no
longer appeared so. He had finished his task, had ended the bungling,
and had heard a clear call ringing with commendation and approval. There
was nothing to hold him back!

Over in the cabinet by the window were a photograph and a few letters;
Truedale turned toward them and wondered if Lynda, instead of his old
friend McPherson, would find them? He wished he had spoken--but after
all, he could not wait. He had definitely decided to take the journey!
But he spoke softly as if to a Presence:

"And so--you played a part? Poor girl! how well--you played it! And
you--suffered--oh! my God--and I never did you the justice of