it was a relief; but nothing will really relieve you--nothing will really
help you--till you have told some one who--who _will_ hurt you."

"Who will hurt me--?"

"Till you have told the truth as--as openly as you lied."

He started up, ghastly with fear. "I don't understand you."

"You must confess, then--publicly--openly--you must go to the judge. I
don't know how it's done."

"To the judge? When they're both dead? When everything is at an end? What
good could that do?" he groaned.

"Everything is not at an end for you--everything is just beginning. You
must clear yourself of this guilt; and there is only one way--to confess
it. And you must give back the money."

This seemed to strike him as conclusive proof of her irrelevance. "I wish I
had never heard of the money! But to whom would you have me give it back? I
tell you she was a waif out of the gutter. I don't believe any one knew her
real name--I don't believe she had one."

"She must have had a mother and father."

"Am I to devote my life to hunting for them through the slums of
California? And how shall I know when I have found them? It's impossible to
make you understand. I did wrong--I did horribly wrong--but that is not the
way to repair it."