called it the luck of politics. Now that the past lay in clear
perspective, he recognized his own madness.

He had fought with destiny like a fool, had stood in the path of a
people to whom God had given the chance which the rulers of the earth
denied them; and this people, through a youth carrying the sling of
David, had ruined him. He had no feeling against Birmingham, nor against
Arthur Dillon. The torrent, not the men, had destroyed him. Yet he had
learned nothing. With a fair chance he would have built another dam the
next morning. He was out of the race forever. In the English mission he
had touched the highest mark of his success. He mourned in quiet. Life
had still enough for him, but oh! the keenness of his regret.

Sonia's story he had heard before, at the beginning of the search, as a
member of the Endicott family. The details had never reached him. The
cause of Horace Endicott's flight he had forgotten. Edith in her present
costume remained unknown, nor did she enlighten him. Her thought as she
studied him was of Dillon's luck in his enterprises. Behold three of his
victims. Sonia repeated for the lawyer the story of her husband's
disappearance, and of the efforts to find him.

"At last I think that I have found him," was her conclusion, "in the
person of a man known in this city as Arthur Dillon."

Livingstone started slightly. However, there must be many Arthur
Dillons, the Irish being so numerous, and tasteless in the matter of
names. When she described her particular Arthur his astonishment became
boundless at the absurdity of the supposition.

"You have fair evidence I suppose that he is Horace Endicott, madam?"

"I am sorry to tell you that I have none, because the statement makes
one feel so foolish. On the contrary the search of a clever detective
... he's really clever, isn't he, Edith?... shows that Dillon is just
what he appears to be, the son of Mrs. Anne Dillon. The whole town
believes he is her son. The people who knew him since he was born
declare him to be the very image of his father. Still, I think that he
is Horace Endicott. Why I think so, ... Edith, my dear, it is your turn
now. Do explain to the lawyer."

Livingstone wondered as the dancer spoke where that beautiful voice and
fluent English had become familiar. Sister Claire had passed from his
mind with all the minor episodes of his political intrigues. He could
not find her place in his memory. Her story won him against his
jud