t her in, told the driver to go to Queen Square, and if he
could not make haste, to stop the first cab that could, got in himself,
thanked his unknown friend, who did not seem quite satisfied, and drove
off.

Happily Miss St. John was at home, and there was no delay. Neither was
any explanation of more than six words necessary. He jumped again into
the cab and drove home. Fortunately for his mood, though in fact it
mattered little for any result, the horse was fresh, and both able and
willing.

When he entered John Street, he came to observe before reaching his own
door that a good many men were about in little quiet groups--some twenty
or so, here and there. When he let himself in with his pass-key, there
were two men in the entry. Without stopping to speak, he ran up to his
own chambers. When he got into his sitting-room, there stood De Fleuri,
who simply waved his hand towards the old sofa. On it lay an elderly
man, with his eyes half open, and a look almost of idiocy upon his pale,
puffed face, which was damp and shining. His breathing was laboured, but
there was no further sign of suffering. He lay perfectly still. Falconer
saw at once that he was under the influence of some narcotic, probably
opium; and the same moment the all but conviction darted into his mind
that Andrew Falconer, his grandmother's son, lay there before him. That
he was his own father he had no feeling yet. He turned to De Fleuri.

'Thank you, friend,' he said. 'I shall find time to thank you.'

'Are we right?' asked De Fleuri.

'I don't know. I think so,' answered Falconer; and without another word
the man withdrew.

His first mood was very strange. It seemed as if all the romance had
suddenly deserted his life, and it lay bare and hopeless. He felt
nothing. No tears rose to the brim of their bottomless wells--the only
wells that have no bottom, for they go into the depths of the infinite
soul. He sat down in his chair, stunned as to the heart and all
the finer chords of his nature. The man on the horsehair sofa lay
breathing--that was all. The gray hair about the pale ill-shaven face
glimmered like a cloud before him. What should he do or say when he
awaked? How approach this far-estranged soul? How ever send the cry of
father into that fog-filled world? Could he ever have climbed on those
knees and kissed those lips, in the far-off days when the sun and the
wind of that northern atmosphere made his childhood blessed
beyond dreams? The