get control of the old man's fortune."

The doctor paused, and Craig inclined his head, as much as to signify
his appreciation of the delicate position in which Burnham stood in
the case. Before the doctor could proceed further, Kennedy handed me a
letter which had been lying before him on the table. It had evidently
been torn into small pieces and then carefully pasted together.

The superscription gave a small town in Ohio and a date about a
fortnight previous.

* * * * *

Dear Father [it read]: I hope you will pardon me for writing, but I
cannot let the occasion of your seventy-fifth birthday pass without a
word of affection and congratulation. I am alive and well--Time has
dealt leniently with me in that respect, if not in money matters. I
do not say this in the hope of reconciling you to me. I know that is
impossible after all these cruel years. But I do wish that I could see
you again. Remember, I am your only child and even if you still think
I have been a foolish one, please let me come to see you once before
it is too late. We are constantly traveling from place to place, but
shall be here for a few days.

Your loving daughter,

GRACE HASWELL MARTIN.

* * * * *

"Some fourteen or fifteen years ago," explained the doctor as I looked
up from reading the note, "Mr. Haswell's only daughter eloped with an
artist named Martin. He had been engaged to paint a portrait of the
late Mrs. Haswell from a photograph. It was the first time that
Grace Haswell had ever been able to find expression for the artistic
yearning which had always been repressed by the cold, practical sense
of her father. She remembered her mother perfectly since the sad
bereavement of her girlhood and naturally she watched and helped the
artist eagerly. The result was a portrait which might well have been
painted from the subject herself rather than from a cold photograph.

"Haswell saw the growing intimacy of his daughter and the artist. His
bent of mind was solely toward money and material things, and he at
once conceived a bitter and unreasoning hatred for Martin, who, he
believed, had 'schemed' to capture his daughter and an easy living.
Art was as foreign to his nature as possible. Nevertheless they went
ahead and married, and, well, it resulted in the old man disinheriting
the girl. The young couple disappeared bravely to make their way by
their chosen profession and, as fa