"Poor Tony," she said caressingly, "it's no good blaming yourself. It had to be. I think I've always loved you. Before it is too late and you are gone away, are you sure this thing that stands between us cannot be banished or atoned or paid for in money? You know I have a large fortune of my own and it is all yours if you need it. Don't let any little thing stand between us. Where one loves wholly one can forgive all. I shall not ask you again; but, my dear, if any human agency can give you to me let me know."

Anthony Trent thought of the view he once had of a great penitentiary in which a man he used to know was serving a life sentence. The prison was set among arid country in sandy plains. Along the top of the stone walls sentries were placed at intervals, men with sawed-off shot guns waiting the opportunity to kill such as sought to escape the dreary days and dreadful nights. His friend made the desperate attempt and died as warders crowded about him and congratulated the guard on his markmanship. It was this place which might at any moment receive the person of Anthony Trent.

He could not think of the law as a human agency. That was one of the differences between the Anthony Trent, writer and Anthony Trent, crook.

The writer regarded the law and its officers with a certain meed of respect but the criminal hated them.

"There is nothing that can help me," he said.

There was silence for a little; then she rose to her feet and pointed out scarlet coated men in the distance and galloping horses. Arthur's hounds had lost their fox in Tregenna woods and had found another stout dog fox headed for his earth on the moors.

"We can follow after all," she said, with an attempt to be cheerful.

They kissed silently and then remounted the impatient hunters. By devious ways they joined the field again. The moorland was a dangerous country to ride. Great stone walls divided small fields and there were sunken roads and paths by which, thousands of years before, the Phoenicians had taken their way.

It was observed with what recklessness the American rode.

"He'll break his neck if he isn't careful," said a rosy faced old "hunting parson," as Trent set his horse at a great granite barrier.

He was not to know that Anthony Trent would have welcomed just such an end.

CHAPTER SEVEN

_THE SENTENCE OF BANISHMENT_

Lord Rosecarrel who was out with the hounds that day was riding ahead of his daughter when she and her escort joined the field. He was a finely built man and looked exceedingly well in hunting costume. He wore a closely trimmed beard, now almost white, and seemed, so Trent thought, more than his sixty-five years. It was a fine, sensitive face, and the earl had all his days until this strange retirement mixed with the great of the earth and taken part in the councils of nations. This mystery connected with his withdrawal from public affairs intrigued the American. He believed Daphne knew. He was wondering what it was when the earl reined in his horse.

"I am told you leave no later than tomorrow, Mr. Trent, I hope you will dine with us tonight."

Anthony Trent hesitated a moment before answering.

"Thank you," he said, "I should like to."

He knew it would only reopen old wounds but the temptation to see Daphne again was not to be resisted.

It would have been a dull dinner but for the earl. Whether or not he saw Daphne's depression, the disappointment of his son and the disinclination of the visitor to talk, he was entertaining and witty. He asked a number of questions about the United States where his son and heir was. While he played billiards with Arthur, Trent and the girl watched them. In truth they paid little attention to the scores or strokes.

It was not easy to get back to the intimacy of the morning. There was a certain reserve in the girl's manner, and a look of sadness that immeasurably distressed Trent.

"Ours is a tragic family," she said, when he tried to bring her to a brighter mood. "We used to be so happy. My mother was wonderful. She is gone, my two brothers are dead, St. Just is away and my father simply pining away of a dreadful thing that wasn't his fault."

"I wish you would tell me what it is," he said.

"Impossible," she said decisively. "It poisons his whole life."

"It was Arthur's fault, wasn't it?" he demanded.

"What makes you say that?" she returned.

"I know it," he said emphatically, "and whatever he did can be undone and if it's humanly possible I can do it. Is someone blackmailing him?"

He could see she was startled. He must have hit on something not far removed from the truth.

"Not that," she said, looking at where her father was standing apprehensively. "And I'm sure you could do nothing."

"I can try," he said earnestly. "Listen to me, Daphne. I feel that there is nothing in life for me but the memory of you. I want more than anything else to do something for you to prove my love. I have nothing in all life to lose. I have no relations, no friends to speak of. My life has been made up of," he hesitated, "of adventures where I pitted myself against the world and won."

She thought of that night in Dereham. Was that one of his adventures?

Certainly he had given her the impression of great strength and resolution. Of all the men she met Rudolph Castoon and Anthony Trent most radiated this uncommon quality.

She looked across the big room to her father. Arthur was making a big break and the earl was not watching him; she knew he was not thinking of the game. He was thinking of that insuperable obstacle which barred him from the work he loved, the work in which he was needed. He looked a sad, broken man and reminded Trent of the portrait of Julius the second, by Raphael, which he had seen in Florence.

"I dare not tell," she said. "It touches big things and would involve many names and would lead you into great peril."

"It would not be the peril for me that you think," he insisted. "I shall know when my hour is to strike. Darling, let me try to do something for the woman I love, for the family where I found such happiness and such sorrow. I have brought so much trouble on you that I want to feel I did something to atone."

He felt for a fleeting moment the warm clasp of her hand.

"You have often been in danger?" she asked.

"It has been my life," he said simply.

"I am afraid to tell my father," she confessed.

"Must he know?" Trent asked.

"Yes. I know the whole hideous thing only in the barest outline."

"I shall broach the subject," he said confidently, "after all I have nothing to lose. I go tomorrow anyway."

She hesitated a moment.

"My father may think you are doing it at a price."

"Instead of which I am offering to help you as atonement."

The light died from her eyes and the hope left her heart. Nothing could alter his decision, nothing apparently blot out the past that held them asunder.

The Earl of Rosecarrel heard Anthony Trent's request for a private interview with a rather troubled mind. He had no doubt it had to do with his daughter. He told himself he had been very careless.

"By all means my dear fellow," he said cordially, "come to my library where we shall be quite alone."

Never had Trent been bidden to this great book lined chamber. It was open neither to those who came on visitors' day nor to the casual guest.

It was here the earl and the prime minister were closeted for several hours.