The pity of it, oh, the pity of it! He was so young--he still seemed to her little more than a boy--and he was so good to look upon, so frank, so honest; and what a noble, generous nature he must have to sacrifice his future, his career, for the woman he loved; why, he had been going to face death itself! Not a word had been said by either Celia or he of the graceful, richly-dressed woman she had seen leaving his room.

Of course, she was the woman who had wrecked his life.

Celia began to piece the story together; they had loved each other--at any rate, he had loved her--probably for years; he had loved her with all his heart, and she with, perhaps, a small half; she had thrown him over to marry a wealthy man--and yet, that theory seemed scarcely consistent; for a wealthy man would not need to commit forgery.

It was a mystery and a puzzle; but the grim fact remained that the young man was going to take upon himself the terrible stigma of a convict for the sake of a woman--perhaps utterly unworthy of him.
She stared at the fire, and it gave her back a picture of the young man dressed in the hideous prison garb, with the wavy hair cut close; with the prison look, that indescribable look of degradation and despair, stamped on his young, handsome face.
She sprang to her feet and moved about the room restlessly.

He was sitting there, alone, waiting for the touch of the detective's hand on his shoulder, waiting for his doom.