"You're caught at last," finished Kilsip, quietly.
Moreland fell down in a chair, with an air of utter weariness and lassitude.
"No man can be stronger than Destiny," he said, dreamily. "I have lost and you have won; so life is a chess-board, after all, and we are the puppets of Fate."
He refused to utter another word; so, leaving Calton and Kilsip with him, Brian and the doctor went out and hailed a cab. It drove up to the entrance of the court where Calton's office was, and then Moreland, walking as if in a dream, left the room and got into the cab, followed by Kilsip.
"Do you know," said Chinston, thoughtfully, as they stood and watched the cab drive off, "do you know what the end of that man will be?"
"It requires no prophet to foretell that," said Calton, dryly. "He will be hanged."
"No, he won't," retorted the doctor. "He will commit suicide."
CHAPTER XXXV.
"THE LOVE THAT LIVES."
There are certain periods in the life of men when Fate seems to have done her worst, and any further misfortunes which may befall are accepted with a philosophical resignation, begotten by the very severity of previous trials. Fitzgerald was in this state of mind—he was calm, but it was the calmness of despair—the misfortunes of the past year seemed to have come to a climax, and he looked forward to the publication of the whole bitter story with an indifference that surprised himself. His own name, and that of Madge and her dead father, would be on every tongue, yet he felt perfectly callous to whatever might be said on the subject. As long as Madge recovered, and they could go away to another part of the world, leaving Australia with its bitter memories behind—he did not care. Moreland would suffer the bitter penalty of his crime, and then nothing more would ever be heard of the matter. It would be better for the whole story to be told, and momentary pain endured, than to go on striving to hide the infamy and shame which might be discovered at any moment. Already the news was all over
