“You would not believe it possible?” queried Dexter, endeavouring to make his voice even.

“Of a cur, yes,” said the minister, his voice trembling with indignation, “but of a man, no.”

Anthony Dexter shrank back within himself.  He was breathing heavily, but his companion did not notice.

“It was long ago,” the Doctor continued, when he had partially regained his composure.  He dared not tell Thorpe that the man had married in the meantime, lest he should guess too much.  “The woman still lives, and my—­friend lives also.  He has never felt right about it.  What should he do?”

“The honour of the spoken word still holds him,” said Thorpe, evenly.  “As I understand, he asked her to marry him and she consented.  He was never released from his promise—­did not even ask for it.  He slunk away like a cur.  In the sight of God he is bound to her by his own word still.  He should go to her and either fulfil his promise or ask for release.  The tardy fulfilment of his promise would be the only atonement he could make.”

The midnight train came in and stopped, but neither heard it.

“It would be very difficult,” Thorpe was saying, “to retain any shred of respect for a man like that.  It shows your broad charity when you call him ‘friend.’  I myself have not so much grace.”

Anthony Dexter’s breath came painfully.  He tightened his fingers on the arm of the chair and said nothing.

“It is a peculiar coincidence,” mused Thorpe, He was thinking aloud now.  “In the old house just beyond Miss Mehitable’s, farther up, you know, a woman has just come to live who seems to have passed through something like that.  It would be strange, would it not, if she were the one whom your—­friend—­had wronged?”

“Very,” answered Dexter, in a voice the other scarcely heard.

“Perhaps, in this way, we may bring them together again.  If the woman is here, and you can find your friend, we may help him to wash the stain of cowardice off his soul.  Sometimes,” cried Thorpe passionately, “I think there is no sin but shirking.  I can excuse a liar, I can pardon a thief, I can pity a murderer, but a shirk—­no!” His voice broke and his wrinkled old hands trembled.

“My—­my friend,” lied Anthony Dexter, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, “lives abroad.  I have no way of finding him.”

“It is a pity,” returned Thorpe.  “Think of a man meeting his God like that!  It tempts one to believe in a veritable hell!”

“I think there is a veritable hell,” said Dexter, with a laugh which was not good to hear.  “I think, by this time, my friend must believe in it as well.  I remember that he did not, before the—­it, I mean, happened.”

Far from feeling relief, Anthony Dexter was scourged anew.  A thousand demons leaped from the silence to mock him; the earth rolled beneath his feet.  The impulse of confession was strong upon him, even in the face of Thorpe’s scorn.  He wondered why only one church saw the need of the confessional, why he could not go, even to Thorpe, and share the burden that oppressed his guilty soul.