"Gentlemen," said he, with a motion of the letter, "my opponent is
dying."

He paused. The words, so unexpected, so strangely different from the
usual exordium, seemed to pass from line to line through the crowd.

"I am speaking in the presence of death," said Paul, and paused again.

And a hush spread like a long wave across the street, and the thronged
windows, last of all, grew still and silent.

"I will ask you to hear me out, for I have something very grave to
say." And his voice rang loud and clear. "Last night my opponent was
forced to admit that nearly thirty years ago he suffered a term of
penal servitude. The shock, after years of reparation, of spotless
life, spent in the service of God and his fellow-creatures, has killed
him. I desire publicly to proclaim that I, as his opponent, had no
share in the dastardly blow that has struck him down. And I desire to
proclaim the reason. He is my own father; I, Paul Savelli, am my
opponent, Silas Finn's son."

A great gasp and murmur rose from the wonder-stricken throng, but only
momentarily, for the spell of drama was on them. Paul continued.

"I will make public later on the reasons for our respective changes of
name. For the present it is enough to state the fact of our
relationship and of our mutual affection and respect. That I thank you
for electing me goes without saying; and I will do everything in my
power to advance the great cause you have enabled me to represent. I
regret I cannot address you in another place to-night, as I had
intended. I must ask you of your kindness to let me go quietly where my
duty and my heart call me to my father's death-bed."

He bowed and waved a dignified gesture of farewell, and turning into
the hall met the assemblage of long, astounded faces. From outside came
the dull rumbling of the dispersing crowd. The mayor, the first to
break the silence, murmured a platitude.

Paul thanked him gravely. Then he went to Wilson. "Forgive me," said
he, "for all that has been amiss with me to-day. It has been a strain
of a very peculiar kind."

"I can well imagine it," said Wilson.

"You see I'm not an aristocrat, after all," said Paul.

Wilson looked the young man in the face and saw the steel beneath the
dark eyes, and the Proud setting of the lips. With a sudden impulse he
wrung his hand. "I don't care a damn!" said he. "You are."

Paul said, unsmiling: "I can face the music. That's all." He drew a
note from his pocket. "Wi