married to a rich husband. But he had another
child, a son without any sense of honour at all, who, although also an
officer, failed to live in a manner worthy his position. This son was
now in Marburg, where there were no expensive pleasures, no all-night
cafes and gambling dens, for a man to lose his time in, his money, and
his honour also.

For such must have been the case with Colonel Leining's son before his
exile to Marburg. The old butler had hinted at the truth. The portrait
drawn by Herbert Thorne, a picture of such technical excellence that it
was doubtless a good likeness also, had given an ugly illustration to
Franz's remarks. And there was something even more tangible to prove it:
"Theo's" letter from Marburg pleading with Winkler for "discretion and
silence," not knowing ("let us hope he did not know!" murmured Muller
between set teeth) that the man who held him in his power because of
some rascality, was being paid for his silence by the Lieutenant's
sister.

It is easy to frighten a sensitive woman, so easy to make her believe
the worst! And there is little such a tender-hearted woman will not do
to save her aging father from pain and sorrow, perhaps even disgrace!

It must have been in this way that Mrs. Thorne came into the power of
the scoundrel who paid with his life for his last attempt at blackmail.

When Muller reached this point in his chain of thought, he closed his
eyes and covered his face with his hands, letting two pictures stand out
clear before his mental vision.

He saw the little anxious group around the carriage in front of the
Thorne mansion. He saw the pale, frail woman leaning back on the
cushions, and the husband bending over her in tender care. And then he
saw Johann Knoll in his cell, a man with little manhood left in him, a
man sunk to the level of the brutes, a man who had already committed
one crime against society, and who could never rise to the mental or
spiritual standard of even the most mediocre of decent citizens.

If Herbert Thorne were to suffer the just punishment for his deed of
doubly blind jealousy, then it was not only his own life, a life full
of gracious promise, that would be ruined, but the happiness of his
delicate, sweet-faced wife, who was doubtless still in blessed ignorance
of what had happened. And still one other would be dragged down by this
tragedy; a respected, upright man would bow his white hairs in disgrace.
Thorne's father-in-law could not