wrench herself from his grasp. The horrible
head had begun to move slowly from side to side. A faint, ghastly smile
appeared round the twisted lips.

"Let me go," she cried. "It's too dreadful."

He dragged her round again.

"You forced yourself into my secrets," he said hardly. "It is too late
to shrink back now. You shall know them to the full--and then you may
go."

He paused, still holding her. In her horror, and under the sickly,
stifling atmosphere of the room, she was almost fainting. But he paid no
heed to her condition. His eyes were fixed malignantly on the grinning
object of his hatred.

"That man," he said slowly, "was free from any hereditary weakness. His
viciousness was not inherent. He came of a good, clean stock. When he
was thirty--although the inevitable results of his violations had
already seized upon him--he committed the crime of marrying. It was the
foulest sin of his life. He knew what the result would be--what it was
bound by every natural law to be. He knew that the sins of the fathers
must be visited on the children"--he clenched his hands, and she winced
as her wrist was crushed in his grip--"and knowing that, he dared to
marry."

His voice rose. His face began to work with passion.

"He married a good woman--who bore all the cruelties he heaped upon her
because she loved him. Her money had been his only consideration--and
when he had got all that he treated her like dirt. But there are limits
even to what a woman can bear. He broke her heart, and she died ...
mad. If only she had died a little sooner...."

She steadied herself with an effort.

"Who is he?" she asked. "Why is he here, in your house?"

A flood of fury shook him.

"His name is Oscar Winslowe," he said fiercely. "He is my father."

She uttered a sharp cry, and wrenched her hand away from him.

"Your father? That creature ... your father...."

"Yes," he cried wildly--"he is my father. I am George Copplestone
Winslowe. Do you wonder that I hate him? I am the victim of his
vices--the heir to his sins. He has left me the legacy of outraged
nature. I am mad."

She recoiled from him, panting. He was beside himself. His face was
distorted; madness glared in his eyes. Then, suddenly, the paroxysm left
him. He turned to her weakly, with the appeal of his utter despair.

"Pity me," he said. "Oh, if you are capable of pitying anything in this
dreadful world, pity me! My awful inheritance is closing in on me.
Every day