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“You have seen her?” She eyed him sharply.

“Yes, to-day.” His look wandered to a table whereon was a photograph of her daughter. He glanced at it keenly. A look of singular excitement sprang to his eyes. “That is your daughter?”

She inclined her head.

“How old is she?” He picked up the photograph and held it, scrutinizing it.

“She is seventeen,” was the reply in a cold voice.

He turned a worn face from the picture to the woman. “She is my child. You lied to me.”

“It made no difference to you then. Why should it make any difference now? Why should you take it so tragically?”

“I do not know, but now”–His head moved, his lips trembled.

“But now she is the daughter of John Gladney’s wife. She is loved and cared for by people who are better, infinitely better, than her father and mother were or could be. She believes her father is dead. And he is dead!”

“My child! My child!” he whispered brokenly over the photograph. “You will tell her that her father is not dead. You”–

She interrupted. “Where is that philosophy which you preached to me, Mark Telford, when you said you were going to marry another woman and told me that we must part? Your child has no father. You shall not tell her. You will go away and never speak to her. Think of the situation. Spare her, if you do not spare me or your friend John Gladney.”

He sat down in a chair, his clinched hands resting on his knees. He did not speak. She could see his shoulder shaking a little, and presently a tear dropped on his cheek.

But she did not stir. She was thinking of her child. “Had you not better go?” she said at last. “My daughter may come at any moment.”

He rose and stood before her. “I had it all, and I have lost it all,” he said. “Good-bye.” He did not offer his hand.

“Good-bye. Where are you going?”

“Far enough away to forget,” he replied in a shaking voice. He picked up the photograph, moved his hand over it softly as though he were caressing the girl herself, lifted it to his lips, put it down, and then silently left the room, not looking back.

He went to his rooms and sat writing for a long time steadily. He did not seem excited or nervous. Once or twice he got up and walked back and forth, his eyes bent on the floor. He was making calculations regarding the company he had floated in London and certain other matters. When he had finished writing, three letters lay sealed and stamped upon the table. One was addressed to John Gladney, one to the Hudson Bay company and one to a solicitor in London. There was another unsealed. This he put in his pocket. He took the other letters up, went downstairs and posted them. Then he asked the hall porter to order a horse for riding–the best mount in the stables–to be ready at the door in an hour. He again went to his room, put on a riding suit, came down and walked out across the esplanade and into the street where Hagar’s rooms were. They were lighted. He went to the hall door, opened it quietly and entered the hall. He tapped at the door of Hagar’s sitting room. As he did so a servant came out, and, in reply to a question, said that Mr. Hagar had gone to the Tempe hotel and would be back directly. He went in and sat down. The curtains were drawn back between the two rooms. He saw the easels, with their backs to the archway. He rose, went in and looked at the sketches in the dim light.

He started, flushed, and his lips drew back over his teeth with an animallike fierceness, but immediately he was composed again. He got two candles, brought them and set them on a stand between the easels. Then he sat down and studied the paintings attentively. He laughed once with a dry recklessness. “This tells her story admirably. He is equal to his subject. To be hung in the academy. Well, well!”