ike the one who had jilted him, told his sister before he went
that if she married the man she wanted he would make a will and leave
his money away from her, build an hospital or a library or something,
suppose she hit upon the plan of marrying the man she wanted, and
keeping it quiet."

"Was that it?"

"Didn't I tell you that I would not say whether it was or not? I only
say suppose that was the case. Doctor Gordon has a married sister by the
name of Ewing living in foreign parts. You can see for yourself how easy
it might have been."

"What about the girl?" asked Goodman in a dry voice.

James flushed angrily. "That is nobody's business," said he. "She is
Doctor Gordon's niece."

Goodman was unabashed. "How does it happen her name is Ewing?" he asked.

"Couldn't it possibly have happened that two sisters of Doctor Gordon's
married two brothers?" James cried. He elbowed his way out. When he was
in the buggy driving home, he began to realize how the fairy tale which
he had related in the store would not in the least impose upon Clemency,
how she would almost inevitably hear of the statements in the papers. He
wondered more and more that Gordon should have divulged a secret which
he had kept so fiercely for so long.

When he reached home he went at once into the office, and gave Gordon
his mail and the New York paper. Gordon glanced at it, then at James.
"Have you seen this?" he asked.

James nodded.

"I suppose you think me most inconsistent," said Gordon gloomily, "but
the truth is I kept the secret while Clara was alive, though I found I
could not, oh, God, I could not after she was dead and gone! I had not
realized what that would mean: to never acknowledge her as my wife, dead
or alive. I found that when it came to the death certificate, and the
notice in the paper, and the erection of a stone to her memory, that I
could not keep up the deception, no matter what the consequence. My God,
Elliot, I cannot commit sacrilege against the dead! Dead, she must have
her due. I anticipated this. There was something last night in the
_Stanbridge Record_, and yesterday, while you were out three reporters
from New York came. I told them that I had done what I had for good and
sufficient reasons, which were not dishonorable to myself or to others,
and beyond that I would say nothing. I suppose the poor fellows had to
tax their imaginations to fill their columns. I don't know what the
result will be with regard to Cleme