me!" she wept.

And for all his life, no matter how many years he may live, Roger Sands
will be glad that he did not hold back from Beverley then. Without
another word he clasped her tightly, while she cried against his cheek.
Both had forgotten that there were guests, that this was the "big night"
which all the newspapers were talking about; that already dinner was
late, and people wondering; that the "ball" was to begin at ten-thirty,
and that the Russian dancers who were to open it, as the great
"surprise," would soon be in the house.

When Beverley had sobbed until exhaustion came, she spoke, in a tiny
voice, like that of a tired little girl: "Because Stephen is--safe, I
can tell you everything now. Will you listen, Roger, until the end,
whether you can forgive me or no?"

"Yes," Roger answered. "But just this before you begin! I love you so
much, Beverley, that if there's something to forgive it's forgiven
already."

"Stephen was my brother," she said, "the one person who belonged to me
after father died. Mother I don't remember. She came of a high Russian
family who were sent to Siberia as political prisoners. She was only
sixteen, and father saved her by making her his wife. I was named 'Olga'
after her. But for that dreadful journey from Albuquerque I had to have
some name that wouldn't give me away when my ticket was bought. Stephen
and I were called Bevan, because father used that name for his business
in Russia, but his own name was Beverley. For travelling that day I was
'Miss B. White.' Once I'd told you I was Beverley, I had always to be
Beverley for you.

"Stephen--or Stephan, his Russian name--and I, were born in Russia,
where father superintended an immense tract of oil wells for Mr. Heron.
When my father was killed in an explosion (I was fourteen and Stephen
twelve) Mr. Heron felt it his duty to look after our future. He had just
married at that time. You must know Mrs. Heron well enough to understand
that she wouldn't like to have two half-grown-up children thrust upon
her. Why, she used to be jealous even of her husband's first wife, an
Irish girl, who died years and years ago, in Ireland! It seems Mr. Heron
hadn't told her about his old love story. She came across a picture of
him taken with the girl, and some letters from people Mr. Heron had
employed to search for his wife, whom he had quarrelled with and left. I
was staying at their house when Dolores discovered the photograph and
letters