"Good name in man or woman
Is the immediate jewel of their souls."
And after all these years of spotless living and generous use of his wealth, was he to be dragged down to the depths of infamy and degradation by a man like Moreland? Already in fancy, he heard the jeering cries of his fellow-men, and saw the finger of scorn point at him—he, the great Mark Frettlby, who was famous throughout Australia for his honesty, integrity and generosity. No, it could not be, and yet this would surely happen unless he took means to prevent it.
The day after he had seen Moreland, and knew that his secret was no longer safe, since it was in the power of a man who might reveal it at any moment in a drunken fit, or out of sheer maliciousness, he sat at his desk writing. After a time he laid down his pen, and taking up a portrait of his dead wife which stood just in front of him, he stared at it long and earnestly. As he did so, his mind went back to the time when he had first met and loved her. Even as Faust had entered into the purity and serenity of Gretchen's chamber, out of the coarseness and profligacy of Auerbach's cellar, so he, leaving behind him the wild life of his youth, had entered into the peace and quiet of a domestic home. The old feverish life with Rosanna Moore seemed to be as unsubstantial and chimerical, as, no doubt, his union with Lillith after he met Eve, seemed to Adam in the old Rabbinical legend. There seemed to be only one way open to him by which he could escape the relentless fate which dogged his steps. He would write a confession of everything from the time he first met Rosanna, and then—death. He could cut the Gordian knot of all his difficulties, and then his secret would be safe—safe—no, it could not be while Moreland lived. When he was dead Moreland would see Madge and embitter her life with the story of her father's sins—yes—he must live to protect her, and drag his weary chain of bitter remembrances through life, always with that terrible sword of Damocles hanging over him. But still, he would write out his confession, and after his death, whenever it may happen, it might help, if not altogether exculpate, at least to secure some pity for a man who had been hardly dealt with by Fate. His resolution taken, he put it into ex-
