him in the old days--was ever known to utter. But
there was reason for its length; it was an epitome of the most important
period of his life.

"I had a nice little country place over in Jersey for three or four
years. It all happened there. No one knew me for what I was; they
took me for what I pretended to be, a small capitalist whose interests
required his taking occasional trips. Nice neighbors. That's where I met
my wife. She was fine every way. That's why I kept all that part of
my life from my pals; I was afraid they might leak and the truth would
spoil everything. My wife was an orphan, niece of the widow of a broker
who lived out there. She never knew the truth about me. She died when
the baby was born. When the baby was a year and a half my big smash
came, and I went up the river. But I was never connected up with the man
who lived over in Jersey and who suddenly cancelled his lease and moved
away."

The Duchess drew nearer to the heart of her thoughts.

"Was the baby a boy or girl, Joe?"

"Girl."

The Duchess did not so much as blink. "How old would she be by this
time?"

"Eighteen."

"What was her name?"

"Mary--after her mother. But of course I ordered it to be changed. I
don't know what her name is now."

The Duchess pressed closer.

"What became of her, Joe?"

A glow began to come into the somber eyes of Joe Ellison. "I told you
her mother was a fine woman, and she never knew anything bad about me. I
wanted my girl to grow up like her mother. I wanted her to have as good
a chance as any of those nice girls over in Jersey--I wanted her never
to know any of the lot I've known--I wanted her never to have the stain
of knowing her father was a crook--I wanted her never to know even who
her father was."

"How did you manage it?"

"Her mother had left a little fortune, about twenty-five
thousand--twelve or fifteen hundred a year. I turned the money and the
girl over to my best pal--and the squarest pal a man ever had--the only
one I'd let know about my Jersey life. I told him what to do. She was an
awfully bright little thing; at a year and a half, when I saw her last,
she was already talking. She was to be brought up among nice, simple
people--go to a good school--grow up to be a nice, simple girl. And
especially never to know anything about me. She was to believe herself
an orphan. And my pal did just as I ordered. He wrote me how she was
getting on till about four years ago, then I had new