ce alight with tenderness, went
swiftly to her, while the other three men stood silent, motionless,
abashed by the event. And Dick took Mary's hand in a warm clasp, pressed
it tenderly.

"I didn't see father," he said happily, "but I left him a note on his
desk at the office."

Then, somehow, the surcharged atmosphere penetrated his consciousness,
and he looked around, to see his father standing grimly opposite him.
But there was no change in his expression beyond a more radiant smile.

"Hello, Dad!" he cried, joyously. "Then you got my note?"

The voice of the older man came with a sinister force and saturnine.

"No, Dick, I haven't had any note."

"Then, why?" The young man broke off suddenly. He was become aware
that here was something malignant, with a meaning beyond his present
understanding, for he saw the Inspector and Demarest, and he knew the
two of them for what they were officially.

"What are they doing here?" he demanded suspiciously, staring at the
two.

"Oh, never mind them," Mary said. There was a malevolent gleam in her
violet eyes. This was the recompense of which she had dreamed through
soul-tearing ages. "Just tell your father your news, Dick."

The young man had no comprehension of the fact that he was only a pawn
in the game. He spoke with simple pride.

"Dad, we're married. Mary and I were married this morning."

Always, Mary stared with her eyes steadfast on the father. There was
triumph in her gaze. This was the vengeance for which she had longed,
for which she had plotted, the vengeance she had at last achieved. Here
was her fruition, the period of her supremacy.

Gilder himself seemed dazed by the brief sentence.

"Say that again," he commanded.

Mary rejoiced to make the knowledge sure.

"I married your son this morning," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"I married him. Do you quite understand, Mr. Gilder? I married him."
In that insistence lay her ultimate compensation for untold misery. The
father stood there wordless, unable to find speech against this calamity
that had befallen him.

It was Burke who offered a diversion, a crude interruption after his own
fashion.

"It's a frame-up," he roared. He glared at the young man. "Tell your
father it ain't true. Why, do you know what she is? She's done time." He
paused for an instant, then spoke in a voice that was brutally menacing.
"And, by God, she'll do it again!"

The young man turned toward his bride. There was disb