Is there anything I can do?
Are you alone--I mean, is there anyone to take care of you ?" Celia was touched by the kindly, paternal note in his voice; the tears--they were those of joy and relief--rose to her eyes.
"No, I am alone," she said.

"But I am all right; it was only a momentary faintness.

I will deliver your message." He bowed, murmured his thanks and, with another glance of pity and concern for her loneliness and weakness, he turned away--this time for good.
Celia leant against the table, her hands closed tightly.

"It is all right," rang in her ears, thrilled in her heart.
"Oh, thank God, thank God!" But the cry of thanksgiving changed to one of dismay.
The words evidently meant that the young man's innocence had been proved or the charge had been withdrawn; but, whichever it meant, the message had come too late.

Oh, what had she done! She had saved his life, but she had made him a fugitive, had condemned him to the cruellest of fates, that of a doomed man flying from justice.