"I'll decide when they come."

There was silence for a moment, then the sound of voices on the hill-
side.

Charley's soul rose up in revolt against the danger that faced him--not
against personal peril, but the danger of being dragged back again into
the life he had come from, with all that it involved--the futility of
this charge against him! To be the victim of an error--to go to the bar
of justice with the hand of injustice on his arm!

All at once the love of this new life welled up in him, as a spring of
water overflows its bounds. A voice kept ringing in his ears, "I will
pray for you." Subconsciously his mind kept saying, "Rosalie--Rosalie--
Rosalie!" There was nothing now that he would not do to avert his being
taken away upon this ridiculous charge. Mistaken identity? To prove
that, he must at once prove himself--who he was, whence he came. Tell
the Cure, and make it a point of honour for his secret to be kept? But
once told, the new life would no longer stand by itself as the new life,
cut off from all contact with the past. Its success, its possibility,
must lie in its absolute separateness, with obscurity behind--as though
he had come out of nothing into this very room, on that winter morning
when memory returned.

It was clear that he must, somehow, evade the issue. He glanced at Jo,
whose eyes, strained and painful, were fixed upon the door. Here was a
man who suffered for his sake. . . . He took a step forward, as
though with sudden resolve, but there came a knocking, and, pausing,
he motioned Jo to open the door. Then, turning to a shelf, he took