had been sent to their care, and Dyck had given them his address in
London on this very chance. It reached Dyck's hands on the day after
the last penny had been paid out for their lodgings, and they faced the
streets, penniless, foodless--one was going to say friendless. The
handwriting was that of Sheila Llyn.

At a street corner, by a chemist's shop where a red light burned, Dyck
opened and read the letter. This is what Sheila had written to him.

MY DEAR FRIEND:

The time is near (I understand by a late letter to my mother from an
official) when you will be freed from prison and will face the world
again. I have not written you since your trial, but I have never
forgotten and never shall. I have been forbidden to write to you or
think of you, but I will take my own way about you. I have known
all that has happened since we left Ireland, through the letters my
mother has received. I know that Playmore has been sold, and I am
sorry.

Now that your day of release is near, and you are to be again a free
man, have you decided about your future? Is it to be in Ireland?
No, I think not. Ireland is no place for a sane and level man to
fight for honour, fame, and name. I hear that things are worse
there in every way than they have been in our lifetime.

After what has happened in any case, it is not a field that offers
you a chance. Listen to me. Ireland and England are not the only
places in the world. My uncle came here to Virginia a poor man.
He is now immensely rich. He had little to begin with, but he was