much in earnest and spoke as though he had good reasons for
these explanations, yet the reasons themselves were not obvious and
the minutes were passing.

"She seemed to me," he murmured, "to be a very charming and
distinguished young lady."

"I am glad to hear you say so," Arnold declared. "To-day I went to
Isaac that he might tell me whether there were not some relatives of
hers in the world to whom she could apply for help and shelter. I
pointed out that he had left Ruth alone and penniless; that although
the charge of her was nothing but a pleasure to me, it was not
fitting that I should undertake it. I insisted upon his telling me
the name of at least one of her relatives, so that I might let them
know of her existence and beg for a home for her."

"It was a reasonable request," Sabatini remarked. "I trust that the
fellow recognized the situation?"

"He had already written out Ruth's history," Arnold said, his voice
shaking a little. "He had written it out in pencil on a couple of
sheets of foolscap. He gave them to me to bring away with me. I read
them coming up. I am here now to repeat their purport to you."

Sabatini gave a little nod of interest. His glance at the clock was
apologetic. He had thrown his overcoat once more upon his arm, and,
with his white-gloved hand resting upon the back of a chair, stood
listening in an attitude of courteous ease.

"I shall be glad to hear the story," he said. "I must admit that
although I only met the young lady for those few minutes at Bourne
End, I found myself most interested in her. I feel sure that she is
charming in every way. Please go on."

"If Isaac's story is true," Arnold continued slowly, "you should
indeed be interested in her."

Sabatini's eyebrows were slightly raised.

"I scarcely understand," he murmured. "I--pray go on."

"According to his story," Arnold said, "Ruth Lalonde is your
daughter."

Sabatini stood perfectly motionless. The slight expression of tired
attention with which he had been listening, had faded from his face.
In the late sunshine which still filled the room, there was
something almost corpse-like in the pallor of his cheeks, his
unnatural silence. When he spoke, his words came slowly.

"Is this a jest?"

"Isaac's story is that you married her mother, who was his sister,
in Paris, nineteen and a half years ago. Her name was Cecile Ruth
Leneveu, and she was acting at one of the theatres. She was really
Isaac's half-sister