"Why did you tell me this?"

"Because I believe that there is every chance--that you may be

legally entitled to my name. Since I have known who you are, I--I

have had you watched. I have hesitated--a long while. My

brokers have watched you for a year, now; my attorneys for much

longer. To-day you stand in need of me, if ever you have stood in

need of anybody. I take the chance that you have that claim on me;

I offer to receive you, provide for you. That is all, Berkley.

Now you know everything."

"Who else--knows?"

"Knows what?"

"Knows what you did to my mother?"

"Some people among the families immediately concerned," replied

Colonel Arran coolly.

"Who are they?"

"Your mother's relatives, the Paiges, the Berkleys--my family, the

Arrans, the Lents----"

"What Lents?" interrupted the young man looking up sharply.

"They live in Brooklyn. There's a brother and a sister, orphans;

and an uncle. Captain Josiah Lent."

"Oh. . . . Who else?"

"A Mrs. Craig who lives in Brooklyn. She was Celia Paige, your

mother's maid of honour."

"Who else?"

"A sister-in-law of Mrs. Craig, formerly my ward. She is now a

widow, a Mrs. Paige, living on London Terrace. She, however, has

no knowledge of the matter in question; nor have the Lents, nor any

one in the Craig family except Mrs. Craig."

"Who else?"

"Nobody."

"I see. . . . And, as I understand it, you are now stepping

forward to offer me--on the chance of--of----"

"I offer you a place in this house as my son. I offer to deal with

you as a father--accepting that belief and every responsibility,

and every duty, and every sacrifice that such a belief entails,"

For a long time the young fellow stood there without stirring,

pallid, his dark, expressionless eyes, fixed on space. And after a

while he spoke.

"Colonel Arran, I had rather than all the happiness on earth, that

you had left me the memory of my mother. You have chosen not to do

so. And now, do you think I am likely to exchange what she and I

really are, for anything more respectable that you believe you can

offer?

"How, under God, you could have punished her as you did--how you

could have reconciled your conscience to the invocation of a brutal

law which rehabilitated you at the expense of the woman who had

been your wife--how you could have done this in the name of duty

and of conscience, I can not comprehend.




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