CHAPTER XX

*

*MASTERSON'S MANOEUVRES*

Francis Granthope ran up the two flights of stairs like a boy, and pounded at Masterson's door. The doctor appeared, with his celluloid collar in one hand and a half-eaten orange in the other. He was coatless and unshorn, although his office hours, "from nine till four" had already begun. He looked at Granthope, took another bite of his orange, and then, his mouth being too full for clear articulation, pointed inside to a chair by the fireplace under the shelves full of bottles.

Granthope dumped a pile of newspapers from the chair and sat down. The sun never came into the room, and the place was, as usual, chill, dim and dusty. A handful of fire fought for life upon the hearth. Behind a fringed portiere, which was stretched across the back of the room, the doctor's cot was seen, dirty and unkempt.

Masterson finished the last of his orange with a gulp, went to a bowl in the corner where a skull was perched on a shelf, and washed his hands. After he had wiped them and rubbed a blotch of juice from the front of his plaid flannel waistcoat, he put on his coat and sat down by the fire.

"Well, I must say you're quite a stranger. How's things, Frank?" he said casually.

"So-so," was the reply. "I've given up my business."

"So I hear. What's the matter? Sold out?" asked Masterson.

"Oh, no, I just threw it all up and left."

"That's funny. I should have thought you could have got something for the good-will. What you going to do now?"

"Nothing. I didn't come here to talk about myself, Masterson, I came to talk about you."

"Well, well, that's kind of you," said the healer, buttoning on his collar. "That's what you might call friendly. You didn't use to be so much interested when you was wearing your Prince Albert. What makes you so anxious, all of a sudden?"

Granthope smiled good-naturedly, and poked at the fire till it blazed up. "See here," he said. "I can show you how to make some money easily."

"That sounds interesting. I certainly ain't in business for my health. Fire it off. I'm listening."

"There's no use beating about the bush with you. And I'm a man of my word. Isn't that so?"

"I never heard it gainsaid," said Masterson. "I'll trust you, and you can trust me as equally."

"Well, I'll tell you how I'm fixed. You know that Madam Spoll and Vixley have got it in for me--they've tried to run me out of this town, in fact."

"Oh, _that's_ why you quit? Lord, I wouldn't lay down so easy as that!"

"Well, I'm out of it, at any rate. I won't say why, but they tried to hurt me, fast enough. Now I want to give them as good as they sent."

Doctor Masterson grinned and clasped his hands over his knees. "That suits me all right, I ain't any too friendly myself, just at present."

"Then perhaps we can come to terms. What I propose to do, is to checkmate them with Payson."

Masterson rubbed his red, scrawny beard. "That ain't easy," he said reflectively.

"Easy enough, if you'll help me."

"How?"

"Simply by giving the whole business away to Mr. Payson. He'll believe you when he won't me."

"Well, what is there in it?"

"You know what my word is worth. If you help me, and we succeed in getting Mr. Payson out of the net, I promise you a thousand dollars."

"H'm!" Masterson deliberated.

"Of course, they know I'll spoil their game if I can, so I take no chances in telling you. So it's up to you to decide whether you'll stand in with them, or with me. I can do it alone, in time, but if you help, so much the better. You stand to win, anyway. It isn't worth that much to work with them, as things are, and you know it."

"I don't know about that," said Masterson craftily, watching his man; "a thousand ain't much for giving away pals."

"They're not your pals. They've tried to freeze you out--Fancy Gray has told me that from the inside. They're going to get rid of you in short order. Besides, you'll have the credit of rescuing a credulous old man from the clutches of swindlers."

"That's true," said the doctor. "They're a-bleeding him something awful. It _had_ ought to be stopped, as you say. I don't believe in grafting. I'm a straight practitioner, and if any of my patients want fake work they can go somewheres else."

"Well, what d'you say, then?"

Masterson thought it over as he warmed his hands. His reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door, and he rose to open it. An old, shabby woman stood in the hall.

She was wrinkled and veined, with yellowish white hair, vacuous, watery gray eyes, a red, bulbous nose, and a miserable chin. She had nothing of the dignity of age, and her thin, cruel lips were her only signs of character. All other traits were submerged by drink and poverty. Her skirt was ridiculously short and her black shawl ragged and full of holes. She breathed of beer.

"How d'you do, Mrs. Riley?" said Masterson. "I'm sorry to say I'm engaged at present and you'll have to wait. Can't you sit down on the stairs for a while?"

"Oh, dear, but that fire looks good!" she whined. "Can't I just come in and have a seat to rest my bones on? I'm feeling that miserable this day that I can't stand."

"Let her come in," said Granthope, rising. "I've said all that's necessary at present, and if you decide to do what I want, we can talk it over later."

The doctor grudgingly admitted her. She tottered in and took the chair by the fire gratefully. She had looked at Granthope when he first spoke, and now she kept her eyes fixed on him as he stood by the window.

Masterson went over to him and spoke in a lower tone. "I got to have time to think this thing over," he said. "Then, if I accept your offer, we got to discuss ways and means, and so forth and so on. I won't say yes, and I won't say no, just at present. I'll think it over and let you know, Frank."

The woman started at the name. Her lower lip fell pendulous. Her eyes were still on Granthope.

"When will you let me know?" he asked.

"I tell you what I'll do; I'm busy to-day, and I got an engagement to-night. Suppose I come down to your office after theater time? Say ten-thirty. Will that do?"

"I'll be there," Granthope replied. "I'll wait till you come. The outside door is locked at eleven o'clock. Be there before that."

He took his hat and walked to the door, giving a look at Mrs. Riley as he passed. Her face was now almost animated, as her lips mumbled something to herself. Granthope ran briskly down-stairs, and Masterson closed the door.

"Who's that?" Mrs. Riley piped querulously.

"That? Why, Granthope, the palmist," said the doctor, busying himself with some bottles on his table. He took one up and shook it.

"Granthope? No, sir! Don't tell me! I know better."

Masterson was upon her in a flash. "What d'you mean?" he demanded, taking her by the arm.

"I know, I know! You can't fool Margaret Riley!" she croaked.

He shook her roughly. "You're drunk!" he exclaimed in disgust.

"No, I ain't!" she retorted. "I'm sober enough to know that fellow; I've seen him before, I tell you."

"Who is he, then?"

"Oh, d'you want to know?" she said craftily. "What would you give to know, Doctor?"

"I'll give you Hail Columbia if you _don't_ tell me!" he cried. "I'll give you a bloody good reputation, that's what I'll give! I'll give you the name of being a poisoner, old woman, and I'll take care that your neighbors know all about your three husbands, if you don't look out!"

"Oh, my God! Don't speak so loud, Doctor, please! I'll tell you if you'll promise to leave me alone. I didn't mean nothing by it."

"Let's have it then." The doctor's eyes gleamed.

"Did you ever hear tell of Madam Grant?" she asked. "I reckon it was before your day."

"Yes, I did. What about her?"

"Why, this young fellow you call Granthope, he used to live with her."

"He did!" The healer came up to her and looked her hard in the eye. "How the devil do you know that?"

"Why, I've seen him there, many's the time. I used to know the Madam well. Me and her was great friends. Why, I was there the day she died!"

"Were you? I never knew that."

"We used to call him Frankie, then. He didn't call himself Granthope at all. I expect he made that up."

"Is--that--_so_!" Masterson grinned joyously.

"Let's see--there was some money missing when the boy left, seems to me."

"Lord, yes, and a sight of money, too. Madam Grant was a grand miser. They say she had a fortune stowed away in the dirt on the floor. She run a real estate business, you know, and she done well by it. I expect that's where Frankie got his start. Strange I never seen him afore."

"You're positively sure it's the same one?"

"Didn't I stare hard enough at him? Why, just as soon as I come in the door I says to myself, 'I've seen you before, young man!' Then when you called him Frank, it all come back to me. I'll take my oath to it."

"Lord, I could kick myself!" said Masterson. "To think of all these years I've known him and ain't suspected who he was!"

"You won't give me away, then, will you, Doctor?" the old lady added tearfully.

"I'll see, I'll see." He returned to his medicine, thinking hard.

He proceeded with his treatment of Mrs. Riley, plying her all the while with questions relative to Francis Granthope and Madam Grant. Mrs. Riley knew little, but she embroidered upon what she had seen and heard till, at the end, she had fabricated a considerable history. Her fancy, under fear of the healer's threats, was given free rein; and Masterson listened so hungrily, that, had there been no other inducement, her pleasure in that alone would have made her garrulous. She went away feeling important.

That afternoon, Doctor Masterson, loaded and primed with his secret, took his rusty silk hat and a Chinese carved bamboo cane and walked proudly up Turk Street to hold Professor Vixley up for what was possible.

The Professor welcomed him with a show of politeness.

"How's Madam Spoll?" was Masterson's first question, after he had spread his legs in the front room.

"Gertie's pretty bad," said Vixley. "The doctors don't hold out much hope, but you know the way they linger with a burn. I wonder could you do anything for her?"

"I ain't any too willing, after the way she treated me last time I was here," said the healer coldly. "I ain't never been talked to so in my life!"

"Oh, you don't want to mind a little thing like that, Doc, it was only her way. Business is business, you know. Besides, if Gertie _should_ be took from us it may make a good deal of difference, after all. I don't just know what I'll do."

"I tell you what you'll do," said Masterson, gazing through his spectacles aggressively, "you'll take me into partnership, that's what you'll do!"

"Oh, I will, will I? I ain't so sure about that, Doc. Don't go too fast; Gertie ain't dead yet."

"I rather think I can make it an object to you, Vixley. I may go so far as to say I _know_ I can." Masterson leaned back and noted the effect of his words.

Vixley looked at him curiously and raised his eyebrows. "Is that so? I didn't know as you was in a position to dictate to me, Doc, but maybe you are--you never can tell!"

"I can just everlastingly saw you off with Payson if I want to; that's what I can do!" Masterson rubbed in.

"How?"

"Through something I found out to-day, that's how."

"I guess I could call that bluff on you, Masterson, if I wanted to. We got him sewed up in a sack. You can't touch us there."

"Lord, I can blow you sky-high!" He arose and made as if to walk to the door. "And, by the Lord Harry, I'll do it, too! I've given you a fair chance, you remember that!"

Vixley took water hastily. "Oh, see here, Doc, don't go to work and be hasty! You know it was only Gertie who wanted to freeze you out. I don't say it's impossible to make a deal, only I don't want to buy a pig in a poke, do I? I can't talk business till I know what you have to offer."

"Oh, you'll find I can make good all right," said Masterson, returning to his seat with his hat on the back of his head. "See here; as I understand it, you're working Payson on the strength of something about this Felicia Grant, he was supposed to be sweet on. Is that right?"

"Well, suppose we are, just for the sake of the argument. What then?"

"Now, they was a little boy living with her, and he disappeared. Am I right?"

"You got it about right; yes." Vixley's eyes sparkled.

"Well, then; what if I know who that boy was, and where he is now? How would that strike you?"

"Jimminy! Do you?" Vixley cried, now fairly aroused. "I don't deny that might make considerable difference."

"I should say it would! I should imagine yes! Why, you simply can't do nothing at all till you know who he is, and what he knows! And I got him! Yes, sir, I got him!"

"Who is he?" Vixley asked, with a fine assumption of innocence.

Masterson laughed aloud. "Don't you wish't you knew?" he taunted. "I'll let you know as soon as we come to an agreement. What d'you think about that partnership proposition now?"

"Good Lord, ain't I told you all along I was willin'? It was only Gertie prevented me takin' you in before! Sure! I'm for it. Gertie's in a bad way, and I doubt if she'll be able to do anything for a long time, even if she should recover. Meanwhile, of course, I got to live. It won't do to let Payson slip through our fingers. Let's shake on it, Doc; I'm with you. You help me out, and we'll share and share alike."

"Done!" said Masterson. "I kind of thought I could make you listen to reason. Now you can tell me just how the land lays with Payson."

"Wait a minute! You ain't told me who the kid is, yet."

Masterson hesitated a moment, unwilling to give up his secret till he had bound the bargain, but it was, of course, obviously necessary. He leaned toward his new partner and touched Vixley on the knee. "It's Frank Granthope!"

Vixley jumped to his feet and raised his two fists wildly above his head, then dropped them limply to his side. "_Granthope!_" he cried. "My God! Are you sure?"

"Positive. Mrs. Riley recognized him to-day at my office. She used to know Madam Grant, and see him down there when he was a kid. Why? What's wrong about that?"

"Hell!" Vixley cried in a fury. "It's all up with us, then!"

"Why, what can Granthope do?"

"Do? He can cook our goose in half a minute. And if Payson finds this out, it's all up in a hurry."

"I don't see it yet," Masterson complained.

"Why, here it is in a nutshell. Payson has an illegitimate son by Madam Grant--he's all but confessed it, and we're sure of it. We had it all fixed up to palm off Ringa on him for the missing heir--see? They was big money in it, if it worked. But let Granthope get wind of the game, and he'll walk in himself as the prodigal son, and we're up a tree. He's thick with the Payson girl already, and unless we fix him, he'll make trouble. If we could only keep Payson from findin' out who Granthope is, and if we could keep Granthope from findin' out that Payson had a son, we might make it yet, but it's a slim chance now."

"It is a mess, ain't it?" said Masterson, scratching his head, and studying the pattern on the carpet. "Of course this son business puts a different face on it for me. But perhaps we can pull it off yet. Have you seen Payson to-day?"

"No--and there's another snag. Did you see the paper this mornin'? The reporters have been around to-day, and I'm afraid they's going to be trouble about that materializin' seance. If they print any more, I'll have to pack up and get out of town till it blows over. What in the world made Payson suspect anything, I don't know! Fancy done her part all right. But I ain't afraid of that. We can get him back on the hook again all right. All we got to do is to lay the fakin' on to Flora, and she'll stand for it. What I want to do next is to develop him."

"Yes, I see you got one of them mirrors over there," said Masterson, going up to it inquisitively. "It's slick, ain't it? Let's have a look at it!"

Vixley sprang in front of him and held his arm. "For God's sake, don't touch it! Don't touch it!" he cried fearfully. "Leave it alone. I don't want it started. I can't stand the damned thing! I'm going to use crystal balls instead. That thing gets on my nerves too bad."

Masterson, surprised, turned away. "What did you get it for, anyway? I should think you'd got 'em again, by the way you talk."

"There's bad luck in it. I'm going to send it away. I'm afraid of it, somehow."

Masterson laughed, and resumed his seat, to discuss with the Professor the details of the plot. He did not seem much interested in the plans for the future, however, and seemed anxious to get away, yawning occasionally. He was now smug and confident, while Vixley seemed to have lost his nerve. The threatened newspaper revelations had cowed him. Madam Spoll was left out of the discussion; it was evident that her part of the affair was finished. Masterson left, promising his assistance if matters quieted down, and Payson could be brought under their influence again.

By dinner-time he had thought the matter over to his satisfaction, and he therefore enjoyed himself with beer and cheap vaudeville till half-past ten. Then he strolled down Geary Street and marched up to Granthope's office.

It had taken all Granthope's resolution to treat with Masterson, but it had seemed the only way, at present, to deal with the situation. Mr. Payson's part in the materializing seance had not yet transpired.

Masterson took a chair, crossed his legs and began:

"Well, Frank, I've been thinking over your proposition to-day, and I've decided that I've got to raise the ante."

"I thought that would be about your style," Granthope returned, "but I think I've offered you about all it's worth."

"Oh, it ain't only my help that's worth it, it's you that's worth it, so to speak. I'm getting on to your game, now, and I happen to know that you can afford to pay well; you see, I didn't happen to know so much about this Payson girl, as I do now. If you're tapping a millionaire's family, why, I want my share of it."

"I guess there's no use discussing the matter, then, if that's your theory. I can't possibly pay more than what I've offered."

"I'd advise you to hear me out, Frank," Masterson went on. "I said you could pay more, but I didn't say what I had to offer wasn't worth more, did I?"

"Why is it worth more now than it was this forenoon?" Granthope asked impatiently.

"It's worth more, because I've seen Vixley, and I've found out things that it's for your interest to know. I'm on the inside, now, and I'm prepared to make a better bargain."

"I see; you've sold me out, and now you want to turn over and sell Vixley out for a raise? I might have guessed that!" He turned to his desk in disgust.

"I don't care what you think. I ain't discussing high moral principles. I'm here to make a living in the quickest and most practical way. If you don't care to hear what I've got to say, I'll leave."

"How do I know you've got anything of value to me? Why should I trust you?"

"You can't expect me to tell you, and then leave it to you to make a satisfactory price, can you?"

"Oh, I don't care what you've learned. We'll call it all off." Granthope rose, as if to end the interview.

Masterson seeing his caution had gone too far became more eager. "Let's talk this thing out, Frank, man to man. Suppose I tell you half of it, and let you see whether it's as important as I say. Then we'll have a basis to figure on."

"All right, but make it brief. I'm getting sick of the business." He sat down, tilted back in his chair and waited, gazing at the ceiling.

Masterson spoke crisply, now. "Suppose I tell you that Payson has confessed that he has a son?" He shifted his cigar in his mouth and watched the bolt fall.

As the words came out, Granthope's face, which had shown only a contemptuous, bored expression, changed instantaneously. It was, for a moment, as if a sponge had been passed over it, obliterating all signs of intelligence, leaving it to blank, hopeless bewilderment. Then his mind leaped to its inevitable conclusion, the whole thing came to him in a sudden revelation; a dozen unnoticed details jumped together to form the pattern, and there it was, a problem solved: horror and despair. He was Clytie's half-brother! He sat enthralled by it for a moment--he forgot the leering scoundrel in front of him--he saw only Clytie--inaccessible for ever.

Then, still without a word, he rose like one in a dream, sought for his hat, went out the door, and ran down-stairs. As in a dream, too, Masterson's astonished, entreating, indignant exclamations followed him, echoing down the hall. Granthope paid no attention, he had no thought but for Clytie--to see her immediately, at any cost.

He swung aboard an O'Farrell Street car, found a seat in the corner of the open "dummy" portion, and strove with the tumult in his soul. The torturing thought of Clytie for ever lost to him coiled and uncoiled like a serpent. He did not doubt Masterson's revelation, nor could he doubt its obvious interpretation in the light of the many revelations that had been cast upon Mr. Payson's past. Yet it must be corroborated before he could wholly abandon himself to renunciation. He tried to keep from hoping.

He was Clytie's half-brother! His mind wrestled with it.

The car filled at the Orpheum Theater, taking on a load of merry passengers, who crowded the seats inside and out till the aisles and footboards were packed. The bell clanged as they drove through the Tenderloin, rolled round the curve into Jones Street and took the steep hill, climbing without slackening speed. It rounded two more corners, wheels creaking; and as it passed, the broad area of the Mission and South San Francisco was for a moment revealed in the gap of Hyde Street, a valley of darkness, far below, gorgeously set out with lights, like strings and patterns of jewels. At California Street a crowd of passengers, mostly Jews, overdressed, prosperous, exuberant, transferred for the Western Addition. The car went up and up, reached the summit and coasted down the dip to Pacific Street. Another rise to Union Street, where another line transferred more passengers towards the Presidio. Then, with only one or two inside, and the conductor lazily picking his teeth on the back platform, they climbed again up to the reservoir. Here a long incline fell giddily to the water and the North Beach. The car rolled to the crest, ducked fearfully, and boldly descended the slope.

He was Clytie's half-brother! The thought of it was darker than the night about him.

Ahead, the black stretch of water, the flash of the light on Alcatraz, and a misty constellation in the direction of Sausalito. To the left, a huge shoulder of Russian Hill swept back from the northern harbor in a wave toward the south. It was sprinkled with artificial stars--the gas-lamps, electric lights, and illuminated windows of the town. One street, directly opposite, was a line of topaz brilliants, loosely strung, scattering over the hill. Fort Point light, two miles away, flared alternately a dash of pale yellow--and short pin-pricks of red. Farther away, Point Bonita was flaming, regular as a clock, a periodic spasm of diamond radiance. Electric cars, like lighted lanterns, were painfully climbing the Fillmore Street hill. All about was a sparse settlement of wooden houses, thickening as it rose to the palaces of Pacific Avenue crowning the summit. A dark space of grass and trees lay ahead--the Black Point Military Reservation--the bugles were calling through the night.

It was past eleven o'clock when Granthope ran up the steps into the Paysons' front garden, walked rapidly up the path and stood for a moment outside the door. There was a light in Clytie's workroom; he threw a handful of gravel against the pane, and waited.

The curtain was drawn aside, the window raised, and Clytie looked out boldly. She saw him, waved her hand, and disappeared. A few moments later she opened the front door quietly. She wore a soft, clinging, blue silk peignoir; her arms were half bare, and her tawny hair was braided for the night. She came out with a look of alarm.

"Oh, Francis, what is it?"

"Did I frighten you, dear?"

"Oh, I knew it was you, immediately. But what has happened to bring you here?"

"Is your father at home?"

"No--he may be back at any moment, though. But come in!"

He removed his hand from hers resolutely, though her touch thrilled him with delight. "Wait!" he commanded. "First, can you get the keys to that trunk?"

"Trunk?" she questioned, puzzled.

"Yes, the trunk you told me about--with the wedding-clothes in it--I must see it!"

"Now?" she asked wonderingly.

"Yes, immediately. Please do as I say, and don't ask why, yet. Everything depends upon it. Hurry, before your father comes!"

The unusual air of command brought her to her senses. She went into the house. "Wait here in the hall; I'll get a light."

She was gone but a moment, and returned with a candle in a brass candlestick. Then, without a word, she led the way up the stairs. They passed silently through an upper hall where an open door revealed a glimpse of her bed-chamber, all in white, as exquisitely kept as a hospital ward. Here she left him to get her father's keys. They came to a flight of steps, leading upward. She waited for him to go first and lift the trap-door at the top. When he had disappeared into the gloom above, she followed him, handed up the candlestick and took his hand to a place beside him.

The garret stretched the full length of this wing of the house. At the far end a dim light came through a gable window, in front of which the bough of a tree waved. The candle cast wavering, widening shadows of the rafters against the sloping roof, and picked out with its light the rows of trunks, boxes and pieces of furniture on either side of the floor. It was damp and cold; there was a musty odor of old books.

She led the way to the end, where, under the window a large, black trunk stood upon the floor. Granthope's heart leaped with hope. But, in another moment it stood still as death. She had handed him the key, and he had thrown open the lid. There, inside, was a smaller trunk, covered with cow-hide, with a rounded top and a lip of pinked leather, studded with brass nails. There were the letters, "F.G."

He needed but one look to recognize it as Madam Grant's. But still, it was a common pattern of the old-fashioned "hair trunk" and he must be sure. The lock had been broken, and no key was needed to open it. He threw open this lid, also. Clytie bent over him holding the candle, so near that she touched his shoulder. Neither had spoken.

There was the same collection of papers, letters and account-books, the same little mahogany box. How well he recalled his first sight of it all! How heavy that tray had seemed to him, as a child! Now he raised it with ease. Below, the same revelation of yellowing satin and old lace--even the same tissue paper, shredded to tatters, wrapped about the packages. The boxes of silk stockings and handkerchiefs were there as well. He thought of the package of bills that had lain in one corner--he knew the place as well as if he still saw the money. Lastly, he groped for the white vellum prayer-book. He found it, and drew it out. Opening the cover, he looked once at the fly-leaf, then handed it silently to Clytie. Written there was the name "Felicia Gerard." He turned his face away from her.

She looked at the book and then at him, still bewildered.

"What does it mean, Francis? Tell me; I can't stand it a moment longer! This is Madam Grant's trunk, of course--I see that. But how came it here? Why should my father--"

She set the candle upon a box and put her arms tenderly about his neck, her face close to his, to soothe his agitation. Her smooth cheek against his was rapture. He could feel her body, warm and soft, through her thin peignoir, and the contact inflamed him. He unclasped her arms with a sudden violent gesture and sprang up in an agony of despair.

"Don't touch me!" he cried. "Never again!"

She looked at him, terrified at his tone. His panic passed in a wave from him to her, and was the more unbearable because she did not yet understand the cause of it.

"What is it? Tell me!" She faced him, and extended her hand.

He retreated from her.

"It's Mamsy's trunk," he said, trying to control his voice. "Oh, don't you see?"

"I'm too frightened to think!" she cried, clasping her hands. "I can't think. Tell me quickly, or I shall faint!"

"Doesn't your intuition tell you?" he asked bitterly. "Why should it fail you now, when it should be stronger than ever before?"

"It tells me nothing, except that you are killing me with suspense. Oh, but I know you are suffering, too! Let me share it. Francis, you don't doubt my love for you, whatever happens, do you?"

He caught her hand again and dashed it away.

"Oh, you should see!" he cried. "It's so plain, now! I am Madam Grant's son--and my father--is your father! I am your half-brother! It's all ended between us, now!"

"How do you know?" She was trembling. "How does this prove it? It is Felicia Grant's trunk, of course--but we knew already that my father had an interest in her--he must have bought this trunk at the auction when she died--but why does it prove you are his son? Why should you think that there was ever such a relation between them? It's horrible!"

"I found out to-night, an hour ago, that your father had a child by her--he has confessed it to Vixley and Madam Spoll. They got it out of him, somehow. That's how they have got a hold on him--and who else should this child be but I, who lived with her? It accounts for his tenderness for these things, for his scrap-book, his going down to the Siskiyou Hotel--everything! Oh, it's certain! It is hopeless!"

She stood gazing at him, bewildered.

"If he had an illegitimate child it must be you, of course. But it is strange I never heard of that!"

"It was all so long ago--before you were born--that it happened. Madam Grant had no friends--except, perhaps, your mother--and it could have been kept a secret easily enough."

She gave a low moan and sank down upon a box limply. Her eyes were fixed on the candle flame; she seemed to be studying some possible way of escape. She looked up at him once, and then down again, for his eyes were desperate. He stood watching her, and for some time neither spoke. He put his hand to his head, stroking his hair over his ear mechanically, while his mind whirled. Below a door slammed. She rose, shaking back her hair, her eyes half-closed, her hands on her breast.

"I understand, now," she said slowly. "It must have been that which drew me to you at first. But if you are my brother, surely I have the more right to love you! Oh, Francis, I do love you! What does it matter how, so long as you are dear to me?" She rose, and put out her hand again, but, at the touch he shrank away from her.

"Oh, no, I can't stand that! It's all over, that tenderness. I can't trust myself with you. It's not a brother's love I feel for you. It's so much more that you will always be a fearful temptation to me."

"Can't you overcome that?" As she held the candle before her, her face had never appeared more noble; for a moment she seemed as far away from him as she had been at first, alone on spiritual heights to him inaccessible.

"Can you?" he asked.

She dropped her eyes. "If we had found this out before, it would have been easier."

"Ah, if we only had! Then you would have come into my life as a sister. How proud I would have been of you! How grateful for all you have done for me! But it is too late, now, to accept you on such terms. I have kissed you--not as a brother kisses his sister. I can never get that desire out of my blood!"

She shuddered and turned away from him. "Yes, you are right, I know. I am a woman, now; you have awakened me. There is nothing for us to do but part. It is hideous to be the playthings of fate."

"Well," he said grimly, "if I have made you a woman, you have made me a man! I can at least live cleanly and self-respectingly. Of course I can't see you again--not, at least, for a long time--not till we get over this--"

She looked up with the veriest shadow of a smile. "Oh, I shall not get over it! There is no chance of that! Right or wrong, I shall always feel the same toward you, always long for you. Isn't that a fearful confession? Yet, how can I help it?"

"Then it is for me to protect you all the more. I can live so that you need not be ashamed of me. But not near you."

She sat down again. Her head drooped like a heavy flower, her hands fell listlessly into her lap. A sudden draft distracted the candle and sent her shadow, distorted, to and fro upon the roof. Then footsteps were heard on the floor below, and a door slammed again. She looked up to say:

"Father has come home. Shall we tell him, now?"

[Illustration: Her head drooped like a heavy flower]

"Must we?"

"I would rather wait. I can't stand anything more, yet. I want to think it out. I am too puzzled and I am fighting against this too hard, now. Let me get hold of myself first. Perhaps we can get down without his hearing us, if we wait a little while. He has gone to his room."

"That's the best way, if we can. There'll be a scene--and I am not ready for that, either. I will tell him later--or you may."

"No, it should be you. How can I talk to him?"

"I can't tell how he'll take it. I'm sure, now, that he has been looking for me--for Madam Grant's child--for some time, and Vixley was undoubtedly leading him on, promising to find his son. But now, when he knows it is I, after the way he has treated me, how will he feel?"

"Oh, be sure he will be kind!"

"It doesn't matter much. I shall not trouble him. I shall go away, of course."

"Oh, I can't bear it! I _can't_ give you up! Oh, I'm sure it isn't right. I can't believe it, even yet!"

"Let's go down!" he said sharply. "I can't stand it any longer. My blood cries out for you! When I think that I have held you in my arms--"

"Yes, come! Don't speak like that or I shall forget everything else."

He took the candle and lighted her down the steps, then followed her quietly. Together they crept along the hall and down the stairway to the lower hall. As they got there, the cuckoo-clock hiccoughed, five minutes before the hour.

She stood for a moment looking at him, her eyes burning. Her peignoir fell in long, graceful lines, suggesting her gracile figure. One braid had fallen over her shoulder across her breast to below her waist. Her beauty smote his senses.

"To-morrow is Saturday," he said. "I shall come up to see your father in the afternoon. You had better be away, if you can."

"I shall be away," she said dully.

"I'll have it out with him--settle it beyond all doubt, and then--"

"And then?"

"I shall try to show you what you have made of me. I shall not see you till we have conquered this thing!"

"Oh, Francis, if I could only feel that it is wrong--but I _can't_. It seems so right, so natural. I shall not change. I have given myself to you, and I can not take myself back. If there is fighting against it to be done, you must do it for both of us. You must decide."

"I shall take care of you, Clytie. That will be my brother's duty."

"Yes," she said, drooping, "you must help me, I can't help you any more. I have done what I can, but you have passed me now, and you are the master."

"I must begin now, then, and go. Good-by!"

She gave him her hands, and he took them for a moment, then flung himself away before their delicacy could work on him. With a sudden smile, he turned to the door and was gone.

She stood, limp and weak, watching him till the door closed. Then the cuckoo-clock broke the silence with its interminable midnight clatter, persistent, maddening.

*