o memory of
aught that happened after he had drunk wine given him by Erris Boyne. He
said that he and Boyne had quarrelled, but had become reconciled again,
and that the drink was a pledge of their understanding. From the time
he had taken the drink until he waked in the hands of the king's
constables, he had no memory; but he was sure he had not killed
Boyne. The fact that there was no blood on his sword was evidence.
Nevertheless, he had been committed for trial.

Mrs. Llyn was sorely troubled. She knew of her daughter's interest
in Dyck Calhoun, and of Dyck's regard for Sheila. She had even looked
forward to marriage, and she wished for Sheila no better fate, because
nearly all she knew of Dyck was to his credit. She was unaware that his
life in Dublin had been dissipated.

If Dyck was guilty--though she could not believe it--there would be
an end of romance between him and Sheila, and their friendship must be
severed for ever. Her daughter did not know that Erris Boyne was her
father, and she must not know--in any case not yet; but if Dyck was
condemned, it was almost sure he would be hanged.

She wondered about Boyne's widow, whose name did not appear in the
paragraph she had seen. She knew that Noreen was beautiful, but that
he had married far beneath him socially. She had imagined Erris Boyne
living in suburban quiet, not drawing his wife into his social scheme.

That is what had happened. The woman had lived apart from the daily
experiences of her husband's life in Dublin; and it had deepened her
bitterness against him. When she had learned that Erris Boyne was no
more faithful to her than he had been to his previous wife, she had gone
mad; and Dyck Calhoun was paying the price of her madness.

Mrs. Llyn did not know this. She was a woman of distinguished bearing,
though small, with a wan, sad look in her eyes always, but with a
cheerful smile. She was not poor, but well-to-do, and it was not
necessary to deny herself or her daughter ordinary comforts, and even
many of the luxuries of life.

Her hair was darker than her daughter's, black and wavy, with here and
there streaks of grey. These, however, only added dignity to a head
beautifully balanced, finely moulded, and, in the language of the day,
most genteelly hung. She was slender, buoyant in movement yet composed,
and her voice was like her daughter's, clear, gentle, thrilling.

Her mind and heart were given up to Sheila and Sheila's future. That was