"Sidney Frost!" exclaimed Lovegrove,
suddenly springing up and laying his hand
on the wooden box, the significance of which
had at that moment flashed on his mind
for the first time, "I thank Almighty God
that I came here to-night to save you from
an awful crime. Give me the pistol-case.
I will have it. I am not afraid of you.
Sit down. Sit down, and sit still, and
listen to me!"

After a brief and unavailing struggle—
for his strength was worn out, and he was,
although a powerfully-built man, no match
just then for the other's cool, determined
energy—Frost obeyed. He sank back into
his chair, and a great burst of tears came
to relieve his overcharged brain. Then
Lovegrove talked to him gently and
firmly. Mr. Lovegrove was not a man of
commanding intellect; and he used many
arguments at which Sidney had been
accustomed to scoff, less from conviction, than
a careless, irreverent tone of mind to which
cynicism appeared a short and easy method
of cutting sundry Gordian knots that
could not be unravelled. But Lovegrove
possessed the enormous advantages of
thoroughly believing what he said, and of
speaking with a heartfelt interest in the
man he addressed. Gradually Frost grew
calmer. He said nothing, but he listened
at least with patience: and once he put out
his hand, with his face turned away, and
pressed the other man's for a moment.

"You—you do not know all," he faltered
at length, when Lovegrove paused.

"Confide in me, Frost, I beseech you!
We have known each other many years.
We have always been friends, have we not?
Confide in me fully. You will not repent
doing so."

"I had written to you—a farewell letter
—a letter of explanation. I had thought
it would meet no human eye until I should
be out of reach of—Well, I had made a
clean breast of it. You may see it, if you
will. It matters little. I am past caring
for anything, I think. But I have a dull,
dim sense of your goodness, Lovegrove. I
think you are a good fellow."

Poor Mr. Lovegrove had little conception
of the revelations that awaited him. His
first act was to ring for the servant. He
stood at the door of the room to prevent the
man from entering it. When the servant
appeared he bade him bring a tray with food:
cold meat, or whatever could be had, he
said, and a little wine and bread. This
tray when it was brought, he received at
the door, and set before his partner with
his own hands. Then he shut the door,
and standing over Frost commanded him
peremptorily to eat. Having seen the
latter reluctantly swallow one or two
mouthfuls, Mr. Lovegrove sat down with
the pistol-case under his elbow, to peruse
the closely-written sheets of his partner's
confession. More than once, during the
perusal, Mr. Lovegrove wiped the perspiration
from his forehead, and breathed hard,
like a man undergoing severe bodily exertion.
But he read on, with a steady, silent
perseverance, little less than heroic. Frost
had, indeed, as he had said, made a clean
breast of it.

The reader is already acquainted with
the main points of the confession. He
acknowledged his fraud in depriving Hugh
Lockwood of his rightful inheritance during
so many years, merely suppressing—with a
lingering trait of the generous honour he
had once possessed, and which he had
forfeited for the wife who had deserted him
—Zillah's part in the deception of her
husband and her son. Then came a record of
disastrous speculations, recklessly entered
into, in the spirit of an unsuccessful
gambler, who throws one stake to bring
back another, and with the object of
supplying the extravagant expenditure of his
household. Debts pressed on every side.
Latterly, there had been the threat of disgrace
and exposure should he fail to refund
Hugh Lockwood's money. There had been
a temporary gleam of hope when his attempt
to borrow from Veronica had seemed
crowned with success. The affairs of the
wretched Parthenope Company had also,
just at that time, flickered up into brightness.
But a few hours had wrested this
last hope from him. He received from
Cesare a note, couched in the most courteous
and almost affectionate terms, regretting
much that the Principessa had been
led by an impulse of sympathy (which
Cesare begged to say he thoroughly shared)
into promising that which it was out of their
power to perform. Their expenses had been
very heavy. And Mr. Frost was aware
that the fortune inherited by Sir John
Gale's widow represented only a comparatively
small portion of the late baronet's
wealth. In brief, Prince Cesare was deeply
afflicted, but he could not lend Mr. Frost a
guinea; and he trusted with all his heart
that the latter would speedily tide over his
embarrassments.

After getting this note, Frost confessed
that he had almost despaired. There was
but one motive left to induce him to