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BDLLI I WHiIT
(G(iORG( DAR MNCUTCIltON
LLUTRArfoIN RAY WALTERS
In the New York home of James Brood.
Qis son, Frederic, receives a wireless
from him. Frederic tells Lydia Des
mond, his fiancee, that the message an
nounces his father's marriage, and orders
rs. Desmond, the housekeeper and
ydia's mother to prepare the house for
n immediate home-coming. Brood and
is bride arrive. She wins Frederic's lik
ing at first meeting. Brood shows dislike
and veiled hostility to his son. Lydia and
rs. Brood met In the Jade-room, where
dia works as Brood's secretary. Mrs.
od is startled by the appearance of
njab, Brood's Hindu servant. She
eDakes changes In the household and gains
ter husband's consent to send Mrs. Des
tpond and Lydia away. She fascinates
Frederic. She begins to fear Ranjab In
his uncanny appearances and disappear
ances, and Frederic, remembering his
ather's East Indian stories and firm be
tef in magic, fears unknown evil. Ran
Daberforms feats of magic for Dawes
and Riggs. Frederic's father, jealous, un
Justly orders his son from the dinner table
as drurk. Brood tells the story of Ran
Jab's life to his guests. "He killed a wom
an" who was unfaithful to him. Yvonne
Plays with Frederic's infatuation for her.
Her husband warns her that the thing
nmuat not go on. She tells him that he
,till loves his dead wife, whom he drove
from his home, through her, Yvonne.
Xvonne plays with Brood. Frederic and
Lydia as with figures on a chess board.
Brood, madly jealous, tells Lydia that
Frederic is not his son, and that he has
rought him up to kill his happiness at
eproper time with this knowledge.
Frederic takes Lydia home through a
heavy storm and spends the night at her
mother's house. His wavering allegiance
to her is strengthened by a day spent
with her. Yvonne. over the phone rouses
Frederic's Infatuation for her again. Lydia
does to beg Brood not to tell Frederic of
his unhappy parentage, but is turned from
her purpose. Frederic. at dinner with
awes and Riggs. is seized with an im
ulse of filial duty, and under a queer im
reesion that he is influenced by Ranjab's
1ll, hunts up his father, who gives him
-te eut direct.
A Mother Intervenes.
Long past midnight the telephone
'in the Desmond apartment rang sharp
ly, insistently. Lydia, who had just
*fallen asleep, awoke with a start and
Bat bolt upright in her bed. A clammy
Perspiration broke out all over her
body. She knew there had been a
She sat there chattering until she
heard her mother's door open and then
the click of the receiver as it was
lifted from the book. Then she put
her fingers to her ears and closed her
eyes. The very worst had happened,
she was sure of it. The blow had
fallen. The only thought that seared
"her brain was that she had failed him,
failed him miserably in the crisis. Oh,
if she could only reclaim that lost
hour of indecision and cowardice!
The light in the hallway suddenly
smote her in the face and she realized
for the first time that her eyes were
tightly closed as if to shut out some
"Lydia!" Her mother was standing
In the open door "Oh, you are awake?"
Mrs. Desmond stared in amazement
at the girl's figure.
"What is it, mother? Tell me what
has happened? Is be-"
"He wants to speak to you. He is
on the wire. I-I- His voice sounds
The girl sprang out of bed and hur
ried to the telephone.
"Don't go away, mother-stay here,"
she cried as she sped past the white
clad figure in the doorway. Mrs. Des
mond flattened herself against the wall
and remained there as motionless as
a statue, her somber gaze fixed on her
"Yes, Frederic-it is I--Lydia. What
Is it, dear?" Her voice was high and
His voice came jerking over the
wire, sharp and querulous. She closed
her eyes in anticipation of the blow,
her body rigid.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," he was
saying, "but I just had to call you
up." The words were disjointed, as
if he forced them from his lips one
by one in a supreme effort at coher
"Yes, yes-it's all right. I don't
mind. You did right. What is it?"
"I want you to release me from my
"You mean-the promise-but, Fred
dy, I can't release you. I love you. I
will be your wife, no matter what has
happened, no matter-"
"Oh, Lord, Lyddy-it isn't thatt It's
the other-the promise to say nothing
to my father-"
"O--oh!" she sighed weakly, a vast
wave of relief almost suffocating her.
"He has made it impossible for me
to go on without-"
"Where are you, Frederic?" she
'cried, in sudden alarm.
"Oh, I'm all right. I shan't go home,
you may be sure of that Tomorrow
will be time enough."
"Where are yout I must know.
How can I reac' you by telephone-"
"Don't be frightened, dear. It's got
0to be, that's all, It might as well be
ended now as later on. The last straw
was laid on tonight. Now, don't ask
questions. I'll see you in the morning.
Good-night, sweetheart. I've-I've told
you that I can't stick to my promise.
You'll understand. I couldn't rest un
til I'd told you and heard your dear
voice. Forgive me for calling you up.
Tell your mother I'm sorry. Good
"Freddy, listen to me! You must
wait until I-Oh!" He had hung up
the receiver. She heard the whir of
the opeD wire.
There was little comfort for her
in the hope held out by her mother
I. as they sat far into the night and dis
" cussed the possibilities of the day so
n- near at hand. She could see nothing
but disaster, and she could think of
)r nothing but her own lamentable weak
d ness in shrinking from the encounter
:e that might have made the present situ
ation impossible. She tried to make
s. light of the situation, however, prophe
Ssyaing a calmer attitude for Frederic
after he had slept over his grievance,
I- which, after all, she argued, was doubt
n less exaggerated. She promised to
e go with Lydia to see James Brood in
the morning, and to plead with him to
i- be merciful to the boy she was to
marry, no matter what transpired. The
le girl at first insisted on going over to
see him that night, notwithstanding
e the hour, and was dissuaded only after
r. the most earnest opposition.
e It was four o'clock before they went
e back to bed and long after five before
d either closed her eyes.
jt Mrs. Desmond, utterly exhausted,
. was the first to awake. She glanced
at the little clock on her dressing-table
a and gave a great start of consterna
tion. It was long past nine o'clock.
t While she was dressing, the little maid
servant brought in her coffee and toast
f and received instructions not to awak
en Miss Lydia but to let her have her
sleep out. A few minutes later she
left the apartment and walked briskly
n around the corner to Brood's home.
Fearing that she might be too late.
she walked so rapidly that she was
quite out of breath when she entered
the house. Mr. Riggs and Mr. Dawes
were putting on their coats in the hall
e preparatory to their short morning
constitutional. They greeted her effu
sively, and with one accord proceeded
to divest themselves of the coats, an
nouncing in one voice their intention
to remain for a good, old-fashioned
"It's dear of you," she said, hur
riedly, "but I must see Mr. Brood at
once. Why not come over to my
apartment this afternoon for a cup of
r Mrs. Brood's voice interrupted her.
"What do you want, Mrs. Desmond?"
came from the landing above. The
visitor looked up with a start, not do
much of surprise as uneasiness. There
was something sharp, unfriendly in the
low, level tones.
Yvonne. fully dressed-a most un
usual circumstance at that hour of the
day-was leaning over the banister
"I came to see Mr. Brood on a very
"Have you been sent over here by
someone else?" demanded Mrs. Brood.
"I have not seen Frederic," fell from
her lips before she thought.
t "I dare say you haven't," said the
other with ominous clearness. "He
3 has been here since seven this morn
3 ing, waiting for a chance to speak to
his father in private."
She was descending the stairs slow
ly, almost lazily, as she uttered the
"They are together now?" gasped
I "Will you come into the library?
Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you
r may enjoy your long walk."
Mrs. Desmond followed her into the
Slibrary. Yvonne closed the door al
i most in the face of Mr. Riggs, who
had opened his mouth to accept the
3 invitation to tea, but who said he'd
I "be d-d" Instead, so narrow was his
escape from having his nose banged.
He emphasized the declaration by
shaking his fist at the door.
1 The two women faced each other.
SFor the first time since she had know
SYvonne Brood Mrs. Desmond observed
a high touch of color in her cheeks.
Her beautiful eyes were alive with an
t excitement she could not conceal. Nei.
ther spoke for a moment.
S"You are accountable for this, Mrs.
Brood," said Lydia Desmond's mother,
sternly, accusingly. She expected a
I storm of indignant protest Instead,
Yvonne smiled slightly.
"It will not hurt my husband to
Sdiscover that Fredereic is a man and
Snot a milksop," she said, but despite
ber coolness there was a perceptible 1
t note of anxiety in her voice.
"You know, then, that they are
Sthat they will quarrel?"
"I fancy it was in Frederic's mind
Sto do so when he came here this
morning. He was still in his evening
clothes, Mrs. Desmond."
S"Where are they now?"
"I think he has them on," said
Mrs. Desmond regarded her for a
tmoment in perplexity. Then her eyes
I flashed dangerously. "I do not think
ryou misunderstood me, Mrs, Brood.
lWhere are Frederic and his father?"
"I am not accustdned to that tone
I of voice, Mrs. Desmond."
"I am no longer your housekeeper,"
said the other, succinctly. "You do
not realize what this quarrel may
Smean. I insist on going up to them
before it has gone too far."
"Will you be so good, Mrs. De.
Smond, as to leave this house instant.
>ly?" cried Yvonne, angrily.
S"No," said the other quiaetly. "1 sup.
pose I am too late to prevent trouble
between those two men, but I shall it
least remain here to assure Frederic
of my sympathy, to help him if I can,
to offer him the shelter of my home.
A spasm of alarm crossed Yvonne's
face. "Do you really believe it will
come to that?" she demanded, nerv
"If what I fear should come to pass,
he will not stay in this house another
hour. He will go forth from it, Curs'
ing James Brood with all the hatred
that his soul can possess. And now,
Mrs. Brood, shall I tell you what I
think of you?"
"No, it isn't at all necessary. Be'
sides, I've changed my mind. I'd like
you to remain. I do not want to mYS'
tify you any further, Mrs. Desmond,
but I now confess to you that I am
losing my courage. Don't ask me to
tell you why, but-"
"I suppose it is the custom with
those who play with fire. They shrink
when it burns them."
Mrs. Brood looked at her steadily
for a long time without speaking. The
rebellious, sullen expression died out
of her eyes. She sighed deeply, almost
"I am sorry you think ill of me, yet
I cannot blame you for considering me
to be a-a-I'll not say it. Mrs. Des
mond, I-I wish I had never come to
"Permit me to echo your words."
"You will never be able to under
stand me. And, after all, why should
I care? You are nothing to me. You
are merely a good woman who has
no real object in life. You-"
"No real object in life?"
"Precisely. Sit down. We will wait
here together, if you please. I-I am
worried. I think I rather like to feel
that you are here with me. You see,
the crisis has come."
"You know, of course, that he turned
one wife out of this house, Mrs.
Brood," said Mrs. Desmond, deliber
Something like terror leaped into
the other's eyes. The watcher expe
rienced an incomprehensible feeling of
pity for her-she who had been despis
ing her so fiercely the instant before.
"He-he will not turn me out," mur
mured Yvonne, and suddenly began
pacing the floor, her hands clinched.
"I'd Like You to Remain."
Stopping abruptly in front of the other
woman, she exclaimed: "He made a
great mistake in driving that other
woman out. He is not likely to repeat
it, Mrs. Desmond."
"Yes--I think he did make a mis
take," said Mrs. Desmond, calmly.
"But he does not think so. He is a
man of iron. He is unbending."
"He is a wonderful man-a great,
splendid man," cried Yvonne, fiercely.
"It is I--Yvonne Lestrange-who pro
claim it to the world. I cannot bear
to see him suffer. I-"
"Then why do you-"
Mrs. Brood flushed to the roots of
her hair. "I do not want to appear
unfair to my husband, but I declare
to you, Mrs. Desmond, that Frederic is
fully justified in the attitude he has
taken this morning. His father hu
miliated him last night in a manner
that made forbearance impossible.
That much I must say for Frederic.
And permit me to add, from my soul,
that he is vastly more sinned against
"I can readily believe that. Mrs.
"This morning Frederic came into
the breakfast room while we were hav
ing coffee. You look surprised. Yes,
I was having breakfast with my hus
band. I knew that Frederic would
come. That was my reason. When I
heard him in the hall I sent the serv
ants out of the dining-room. He had
spent the night with a friend. His
first words on entering the room were
these-I shall never forget them: 'Last
night I thought I loved you, father,
but I have come home just to tell you
that I hate you. I can't stay in this
house another day. I'm going to get
out. But I just wanted you to know
that I thought I loved you last night,
as a son should love a father. I just
wanted you to know it' He did
not even look at me, Mrs. Desmond.
I don't believe he knew I was there.
I shall never forget the look in James
Brood's face.' It was as if he saw a
ghost or some horrible thing that fas
cinated him. He did not utter a word,
but stared at Frederic in that terrible,
awestruck way. 'I'm going to get out,
said Frederic, his voice rising. 'You've
treated me like a dog all my life and
I'm through. I sha'n't even say good
by to you. You don't deserve any
mnrme ennaingt.iatinn from me than I'vt
received from yoo. I hope I'll never T
see You again. If I ever have a son s(
I'll not treat him as you've treated
your son. Iy (;od, you don't deserve w
the honor of being called father. You a
don't deserve to have a son. I wish ni
to God I had never been obliged to call w
YOU father. I don't know what you c4
did to my mother, but if you treated it
her as--' Just then my husband found t(
his Voice. lie sprang to his feet, and
I've never seen such a look of rage. h
I thought he w\as going to strike Fred- h
eric and I thiiii I screamed-just a tl
little scream, of course. I was so ter- sl
rifled. But he only said-and it was di
horrible the way he said it-'You fool- ii
you bastard!' And Frederic laughed
in his face and cried out, unafraid, 'I'm le
glad you call me a bastard! By God,
I'd rather be one than to be your son. 13
It would at least give me something
to be proud of-a real father.'" a
"Good heaven!" fell from Mrs. Des
mond's white lips.
Yvonne seemed to have paused to
catch her breath. Her breast heaved
convulsively, the grip of her hands
tightened on the arms of the chair. 11
Suddenly she resumed her recital, but
her voice was hoarse and tremulous. s
"I was terribly frightened. I thought s
of calling out to Jones, but I-I had t
no voice! Ah, you have never seen two
angry men waiting to spring at each
other's throats, Mrs. Desmond. My n
husband suddenly regained control of n
himself. lie was very calm. 'Come
with me,' he said to Frederic. 'This
is not the place to wash our filthy d
family linen You say you want some- h
thing to be proud of. Well, you shall
have your wish. Come to my study.' t
And they went away together, neither
speaking a word to me-they did not
even glance in my direction. They
went up the stairs. I heard the door
close behind them-away up there.
That was half an hour ago. I have
been waiting, too-waiting as you are
waiting now-to comfort Frederic
when he comes out of that room a
Mrs. Desmond started up, an incred
ulous look in her eyes.
"You are taking his side? You are
against your husband? Oh, now I
know the kind of woman you are. I
"Peace! You do not know the kind
of woman I am. You never will know.
Yes, I shall take sides with Frederic."
"Yau do not love your husband"
A strange, unfathomable smile came t
into Yvonne's face and stayed there.
Mrs. Desmond experienced the same
odd feeling she had had years ago on
first seeing the Sphinx. She was sud
denly confronted by an unsolvable
"He shall not drive me out of his
house. Mrs. Desmond," was her an
swer tJ the challenge.
A door slammed in the upper re
"It is over," breathed Yvonne, with
a tremulous sigh.
"We shall see how well they were
able to take care of themselves, Mrs.
Brood," said Mrs. Desmond in a low
"We shall see-yes," said the other,
mechanically. Suddenly she turned
on the tall, accusing figure beside her.
"Go away! Go now! I command
you to go. This is our affair, Mrs.
Desmond. You are not needed here.
You were too late, as you say. I beg
of you, go!" She strode swiftly
toward the door. As she was about
to place her hand on the knob it was
opened from the other side, and Ran
Jab stood before them.
"Sahib begs to be excused, Mrs. Des
mend. He is just going out."
"Going out?" cried Yvonne, who had
shrunk back into the room.
"Yes, sahibah. You will please ex
cuse, Mrs. Desmond. He regret very
Mrs. Desmond passed slowly through
the door, which he held open for her.
As she passed by the Hindu she looked
full Into his dark, expressive eyes,
and there was a question in hers. He
did not speak, but she read the answer
as if it were on a printed page. Her
She went back to Lydia.
"To My Own Sweetheart."
When James Brood and Fredereic
left the dining-room nearly an hour
prior to the departure of Mrs. Des
mond, there was in the mind of each
the resolution to make short work of
the cominefinterview. Each knew that
the time had arrived for the parting
. of the ways, and neither had the least
desire to prolong the suspense.
The study door was closed. James
Brood put his hand on the knob, but,
before turning it, faced the young man
with an odd mixture of anger and pity
in his eyes.
"Perhaps it would be better if we
had nothing more to say to each oth
er," he said, with an effort. "I have
changed my mind. I cannot say the
thing to you that I-"
"Has it got anything to do with
Yvonne and me?" demanded Frederic
ruthlessly, jumping at conclusions in
hls new-found arrogance.
Brood threw open the door. "Step
inside," he said in a voice that should
have warned the younger man, it was
so prophetic of disaster. Frederic
had touched the open sore with that
unhappy question. Not until this In
stant had James Brood admitted to
himself that there was a sore and that
it had been festering all these weeks.
Now it was laid bare and smarted with
pain. Nothing could save Frederic
after that reckless, deliberate thrust
at the very core of the malignant
growth that lay so near the surface
It had been in James Brood's heart
to spare the boy,
SHont words were on Frederli's lie.
r They were alone in his room. He y
a squared his shoulders. w
d "I suppose you think I am in love b
e with her," he said defiantly. lie waited b,
u a moment for the response that did h
h not come. B3rood was regarding him d;
!I with eyes from which every spark of
u compassion had disappeared. "Well, g'
d it may interest you to know that I in- "'
d tend to marry Lydia this very day." fi
d Brood advanced a few steps toward
t. him. In the subdued light of the room y
I- his features were not clearly dis- it
a tingulshable. His face was gray and a
r- shadowy; only the eyes were sharply y,
a defined. They glowed like points of
- light, unflickering. g
d "I shall be sorry for Lydia," he said tl
a levelly. ti
I, "You needn't be," said Frederic hot
i. ly. "She understands everything."
8 "Have you told her that you love her tl
and no one else?" it
3- "Certainly!" k
"Then you have lied to her." it
o There was silence-tense silence. ti
d "Do you expect me to strike you for e
that?" came at last from Frederic's
lips, low and menacing.
it "You have always considered your.
self to be my son, haven't you?" pur
sued Brood deliberately. "Can you say a
d to me that you have behaved of late as d
a son should-"
h "Wait! We'll settle that point right i,
now. I did lose my head. Head, I say,
not heart. I shan't attempt to explain t
--I can't, for that matter. As for ,
Is Yvonne-well, she's as good as gold. -
She understands me better than I un
derstand myself. She knows that even t
11 honest men lose their heads some- ,
times. I can say to you now that I t
would sooner have cut my own throat I
than to do more than envy you the ,
possession of one you do not de- t
serve. I have considered myself a
r your son. I have no apology to make
e. for my-we'll call it Infatuation. I
re shall only admit that it has existed
ec and that I have despaired. As God is
my witness, I have never loved any
one but Lydia. I have given her pain,
and the amazing part of it is that I
can't help myself. Naturally, you can't
understand what it all means. You are
re not a young man any longer. You
"Good God!" burst from Brood's lips.
id Then he laughed aloud-grotesquely.
"Yvonne is the most wonderful thing
, that has ever come into my life. I
adored her the Instant I saw her. I
have felt sometimes that I knew her a
ae thousand years ago. I have felt that
'e. I loved her a thousand years ago." A
ae calm seriousness now attended his
d speech, in direct contrast to the violent
mood that had gone before. "I have
le thought of little else but her. I con
fess it to you. But through it all there
is has never been an instant in which I
n- did not worslhilp Lydia Desmond. I
I do not pretend to account for it it
Sis beyond me."
brood waited patiently to the end.
"Your mother before you had a some
what similar affliction," he said, still
in the steady, repressed voice. "Per
haps it is a gift-a convenient gift
this ability to worship without effort"
"Better leave my mother out of it,"
said Frederic sarcastically. A look of
ed wonder leaped to his eyes. "That's
the first time you've condescended to
acknowledge that I ever had a
Brood's smile was deadly. "If you
eg have anything more to say to me, you
ly would better get it over with. Purge
t your soul of all the gall that embitters
it. I grant you that privilege. Take
- your innings."
A spasm of pain crossed Frederic's
face. "Yes, I am entitled to my in
nings. I'll go back to what I said down
stairs. I thought I loved and honored
you last night. I would have forgiven
everything if you had granted me a
friendly-friendly, that's all--just a
ry friendly word. You denied-"
"I suppose you want me to believe
r. that it was love for me that brought
ed you slinking to the theater," said the
"I don't expect you to believe any
er thing. 1 was lonely. I wanted to be
er with you and Yvonne. Can't you un
derstand how lonely I've been all my
life? Can't you understand how hun
gry I am for the affection that every
other boy I've known has had from his
parents? I've never asked you about
nsy mother. I used to wonder a good
r deal. Every other boy had a mother. I
never had one. I couldn't understand.
es- I no longer wonder. I know now that
she must have hated you with all the
of strength of her so~il. God, how she
must have hated to feel the touch of
Syour hands upon her body! Something
tells me she left you, and if she did, I
hope she afterwards found someone
who-but no, I won't say it. Even now
es I haven't the heart to hurt you by say
ing that." He stopped, choking up
with the rush of bitter words. "Well,
Ity why don't you say something?"
"I'm giving you your innings. Go
we on?" said Brood softly.
th "She must have loved you once-or
Te she wouldn't have married you. She
he must have loved you or I wouldn't be
here in this world. She-"
Ith "Ha!" came sharply from Brood's
ric stiff lips.
iD "-didn't find you out until it was
too late. She was lovely, I know. She
ep was sweet and gentle and she loved
hid happiness. I can see that in her face.
as in her big, wistful eyes. You-"
rie "What's this?" demanded Brood,
lat startled. "What are you saying?"
in- "Oh, I've got her portrait-an old
to photograph. For a month I've carried
at it here in this pocket-case, over my
ks. heart. I wouldn't part with it for all
Ith the money in the world. When I look
ric at the dear, sweet, girlish face and her
at eyes look back into mine, I know that
nt she loved me."
"Her portraft'?" said Brood. unbe
"Yes-and I have only to look at it
oa to know that she couldn't have hurt
you-so It must have been the otT'r
way 'round. She's dead now, I know.
but she didn't die for years after I was
born. Why was it that I never saw
her? Why was I kept up there in that
"Where did you get that photo
graph?" demanded lBrood hoarsely.
"Where, I -ay! What damned, Inter
"I wouldn't be too hasty, if I were
you," said Frederic, a note of triumph
in his voice. "Yvonne gave it to me. I
made her promise to say nothing to
you about it. She-"
"Yvonne found it? Yvonne? And
gave it to you? What trick of fate is
this? But-ah, it may not be a por
trait of your-your mother. Some old
"No, it is my mother. Yvonne saw
the resemblance at once and brought
it to me. And It may interest you to
know that she advised me to treasure
it all my life because it would always
tell me how lovely and sweet my moth
er was-the mother I have never
"I insist on seeing that picture."
said Brood, with deadly intensity.
"No," said Frederic, folding his
arms tightly across his breast. "You
didn't deserve her then and you-"
"You don't know what you are say
"Ah, don't I? Well, I've got just a lit
tle bit of my mother safe here over
my heart-a little faded card, that's all
-and you shall not rob me of that.
Last night I was sorry for you. I had
the feeling that somehow you have al
ways been unhappy over something
that happened in the past that my
mother was responsible for. And yet
when I took out this photograph, this
tiny bit of old c: rdboard--see, it is so
small that it can be carried in my
waistcoat pocket-when I took it out
and looked at the pure, lovely face, I
f "I Shall Be Sorry for Lydia," He Said
by heaven, I knew she was not to
"Have you finished?" asked Brood,
1 wiping his brow. It was dripping.
"Except to repeat that I am through
with you forever. I've had all that I
can endure and I'm through. My great
est regret is that I didn't get out
long ago. But like a fool-a weak fool,
I kept on hoping that you'd change
and that there were better days ahead
for me. I kept on hoping that you'd
be a real father to me. Good Lord,
what a libel on the name!" He
laughed raucously. "I'm sick of calling
you father. You did me an honor
downstairs by calling me 'bastard.'
SYou had no right to call me that, but,
by heaven, it it were not for this bit
Sof cardboard here over my heart, I'd
laugh in your face and be happy to
shout from the housetops that I am
no son of yours. But there's no such
luck as that! I've only to look at my
Vmother's innocent, soulful face to-"
"Stop!" shouted Brood in an awful
Svoice. His clenched hands were raisedt
Sabove his head. "The time has come
Sfor me to tell you the truth about this
5innocent mother of yours. Luck Is
Iwith you. I am not your father. Yeo
t "Wait! If you are going to tell me
Bthat my mother was not a good wom
Ban, I want to go on record in advance
fof anything you may say, as being
Sglad that I am her son no matter who
I my father was. I am glad that she
Bloved me because 1 was her child, and
if you are not my father then I still
have the joy of knowing that she loved
Ssome one man well enough to-" He
I broke off the bitter sentence and with
nervous fingers drew a small leather
Scase from his waistcoat pocket "Be
fore you go any farther, take one look
r at her face. It will make you
ashamed of yourself. Can you stand
sthere and lie about her after looking
He was holding the window curtaiMs_
apart, and a stream of light fell u
Sthe lovely face, so small that Br
was obliged to come quite close to
able to see it His eyes were di -
"It is not Matilde-it is like her
but- Yes, yes, it is Matilde! f must
be losing my mind to have thought-"
SHe wiped his brow. "But, good God, it
was startling-positively uncanny" He
Sspoke as to himself, apparently forget,
ting that he had a listener.
S"Well, can you lie about her now?"
SBrood was still staring as if faa.
cinated at the tiny photograph. "But
SI have never seen that picture before.
She never had one so small uas that..
€tO l BL CONTINUEI).