wishes, or that it might be a happy
thing for the boy that I did so."

"The question between us," said his cousin gently, "was whether you
were justified in abandoning them, not whether it was advantageous to
them or not."

"I would point out in passing, Cousin Charles, that Elizabeth
abandoned me, but we will let that be. My reason for opening the
subject at all is not a question of justification." He puffed away
slowly at his cigar for a minute and then went on in an even,
unemotional voice. "The fact is something rather strange has happened.
For twenty years I have believed I knew the exact whereabouts of
Elizabeth and my son. I had a good reason for the belief. One man only
shared this supposititious knowledge with me." His hearer seemed about
to speak, but desisted and looked away from Peter out of the window.
Not a movement, a sign, a breath, escaped those hard blue eyes, and
Charles Aston knew it. It did not render him nervous or even
indignant, but he was a trifle more dignified, more obviously
determined to be courteous at any cost.

"That boy and his mother were living at Liverpool," went on Peter
calmly. "He was employed in a big shipping firm in a very minor
capacity. He was killed in the great explosion in the dock last
week."

He spoke as calmly as if he were saying his supposed son had lost his
post or had gone for a holiday.

Charles Aston gave a sudden movement and turned a shocked face towards
the speaker.

"Terrible!" he said, "I wonder how the shareholders in that company
feel? Did you see the verdict?"

Peter waved his hand. "Yes, yes. Juries lose their heads in these
cases. But to continue. I went down to Liverpool at once before the
funeral, you understand." He paused. "I was naturally much disturbed
and horrified, and then--well, the boy wasn't my son, after all."

"Not your son?" echoed Charles Aston slowly.

"No, not my son." There was a tinge of impatience in his voice. "I
should not have known, but the mother was there. She went in as I came
out."

"His mother was alive?"

"Yes. She was not Elizabeth."

His cousin turned to him, indignation blazing in his eyes. "For twenty
years, Peter, you believed you knew your wife's whereabouts, you knew
she was in more or less a state of poverty, and you made no attempt to
see her face to face? You accepted the story of another with no
attempt to personally prove the truth yourself?"

"I had good reason to believe it," returned Peter s