ever knew my father," I said, "except as the cause of my own
miserable upbringing and friendless life."

"You never knew him," she answered, "and therefore you believe the
worst. He was weak, perhaps, and, exposed to a terrible temptation, he
fell! But he was not a bad man. He was never that."

"Do you think, Mrs. Smith-Lessing," I said, struggling to keep my voice
firm, though I felt myself trembling, "that this is a profitable
discussion for either of us?"

"Why not?" she exclaimed almost fiercely. "You have heard his story
from enemies. You have judged him from the report of those who were
never his friends. He sinned and he repented. Better and worse men
than he have done that. If he were wholly bad, do you believe that
after all these years I should care for him still?"

I held my peace. The woman was leaning over towards me now. She seemed
to have lost the desire to attract. Her voice had grown sharper and
less pleasant, her carefully arranged hair was in some disorder, and the
telltale blue veins by her temples and the crow's feet under her eyes
were plainly visible. Her face seemed suddenly to have become pinched
and wan, the flaming light in her strangely coloured eyes was a
convincing assertion of her earnestness. She was not acting now, though
what lay behind the storm I could not tell.

"You seem afraid to talk to me," she exclaimed. "Why? I have done you
no harm!"

"Perhaps not," I answered, "yet I cannot see what we gain by raking up
this miserable history. It is both painful and profitless."

"I will say no more," she declared, with a sudden note of dignity in her
tone. "I can see that I am judged already in your mind. After all, it
does not really matter. No one likes to be thought worse of than they
deserve, and women are all--a little foolish. But at least you must
answer me one question. I have the right to ask it. You must tell me
where he is."

"Where who is?" I asked.

Again her eyes flamed upon inc. Her lips parted a little, and I could
see the white glimmer of her teeth.

"Oh, you shall not fence with me like a baby!" she exclaimed. "Tell me,
or lie to me, or refuse to tell me! Which is it?"

"Upon my honour," I said, looking at her curiously, "I have no idea whom
you mean!"

She looked at inc steadily for several moments, her lips parted, her
breath seeming to come sharply between her teeth.

"I mean your father," she said. "Whom else should I mean?"

CHAPTER XX

TWO TO O