had won wealth was but another proof of the
man's power.

"You would not come to America, so I came here, and--" She paused,
her voice trembling slightly. "There is much to do at Salem," he added
calmly, and yet with his heart beating, as it had not beaten since the
day he had first met her at Playmore.

"You would not take the money I sent to Dublin for you--the gift of a
believing friend, and you would not come to America!"

"I shall have to tell you why one day," he answered slowly, "but I'll
pay my respects to your mother now." So saying he went forward and bowed
low to Mrs. Llyn. Unlike her daughter, Mrs. Llyn did not offer her hand.
She was pale, distraught, troubled--and vexed. She, however, murmured
his name and bowed. "You did not expect to see me here in Jamaica," he
said boldly.

"Frankly, I did not, Mr. Calhoun," she said.

"You resent my coming here to see you? You think it bold, at least."

She looked at him closely and firmly. "You know why I cannot welcome
you."

"Yet I have paid the account demanded by the law. And you had no regard
for him. You divorced him."

Sheila had drawn near, and Dyck made a gesture in her direction. "She
does not know," he said, "and she should not hear what we say now?"

Mrs. Llyn nodded, and in a low tone told Sheila that she wished to be
alone with Dyck for a little while. In Dyck's eyes, as he watched Sheila
go, was a thing deeper than he had ever known or shown before. In her
white gown, and with her light step, Sheila seemed to float away--a
picture graceful, stately, buoyant, "keen and small." As she was about
to pass beyond a clump of pimento bushes, she turned her head towards
the two, and there was that in her eyes which few ever see and seeing
are afterwards the same. It was a look of inquiry, or revelation, of
emotion which went to Dyck's heart.

"No, she does not know the truth," Mrs. Llyn said. "But it has been
hard hiding it from her. One never knew whether some chance remark, some
allusion in the papers, would tell her you had killed her father."

"Did I kill her father?" asked Dyck helplessly. "Did I? I was found
guilty of it, but on my honour, Mrs. Llyn, I do not know, and I do not
think I did. I have no memory of it. We quarrelled. I drew my sword on
him, then he made an explanation and I madly, stupidly drank
drugged wine in reconciliation with him, and then I remember nothing
more--nothing at all."

"What was the cause of your quarrel?"

Dy