aled thought and study in behalf of a
harried and wretched people, yet the student was not a native of
Ireland. It seemed profane to set foot here, to spy upon its holy
privacy. He felt glad that its details gave the lie so emphatically to
Edith's instincts.

The astonishing thing was the absence of Californian relics and
mementoes. Some photographs and water colors, whose names Curran
mentally copied for future use, pictured popular scenes on the Pacific
slope; but they could be bought at any art store. Surely his life in the
mines, with all the luck that had come to him, must have held some great
bitterness, that he never spoke of it casually, and banished all
remembrances.

That would come up later, but Curran had made up his mind that no secret
of Arthur's life should ever see the light because he found it. Not even
vengeful Edith, and she had the right to hate her enemy, should wring
from him any disagreeable facts in the lad's career. So deeply the
detective respected him!

In the place of honor, at the foot of his bed, where his eyes rested on
them earliest and latest, hung a group of portraits in oil, in the same
frame, of Louis the beloved, from his babyhood to the present time: on
the side wall hung a painting of Anne in her first glory as mistress of
the new home in Washington Square; opposite, Monsignor smiled down in
purple splendor; two miniatures contained the grave, sweet, motherly
face of Mary Everard and the auburn hair and lovely face of Mona.

"There are the people he loves," said Curran with emotion.

"Ay, indade," Judy said tenderly, "an' did ever a wild boy like him love
his own more? Night an' day his wan thought is of them. The sun rises
an' sets for him behind that picther there," pointing to Louis'
portraits. "If annythin' had happened to that lovely child last Spring
he'd a-choked the life out o' wan woman wid his own two hands. He's aisy
enough, God knows, but I'd rather jump into the say than face him when
the anger is in him."

"He's a terrible man," said Curran, repeating Edith's phrase.

He examined some manuscript in Arthur's handwriting. How different from
the careless scrawl of Horace Endicott this clear, bold, dashing script,
which ran full speed across the page, yet turned with ease and leisurely
from the margin. What a pity Edith could not see with her own eyes these
silent witnesses to the truth. Beyond the study was a music-room, where
hung his violin over some scattered