ade no sign at all. No
fabulous fortune was, however, gathered in. "Patrimondi" paid well,
but the working expenses were great. Christopher made big returns to
the men, not in wages only, but in every condition of their work.
Those in power under him soon learnt it was better to forget the
momentary interests of the company than the living interests of the
workmen, but in return for his care Christopher did insist on, and get
from his men, an amount of work that made other employers open their
eyes with envious wonder.

All this time Patricia held her place in his life. It would have been
hard to trace her actual influence on his daily actions, but it was
there, preserving his finer instincts under the load of material
cares, linking him indissolubly to that world of high Realities which
is every man's true inheritance. Yet he made no attempt to claim her
and at times wondered at his own procrastination. The idea implanted
by Peter Masters bore strange fruit, for even an unconsciously
harboured lie must needs hamper the life behind which it finds
shelter. He could make no advance towards Patricia while that
invidious doubt of his parentage existed, and he lacked the
remorseless courage of Mr. Aston to inflict pain for however
justifiable a cause on Caesar. Also perhaps his pride had a word to
say. If there was a secret, it was theirs, and they had not chosen to
divulge it to him. Again, he had fathomed something of the depth of
the jealous love bestowed on him, and his own affection and gratitude
would have their say. All and each of these reasons arrayed themselves
against his love. When he tried to face it first one and then the
other weighed heaviest, till at length he called time to his side and
flung himself into his work the harder to leave that ally free scope.
All of which meant that he was yet but a worshipper at Love's throne,
and failed to recognise that his place was on it.

Christopher was in France when he saw the notice of Peter Masters'
death in the papers, and he was more staggered by it than he cared to
admit to himself. The millionaire had been knocked down at a busy
crossing with no more ceremony than would have served for his poorest
workman. He had been carried to the nearest hospital and died there
almost directly, alone, as he had lived. There was the usual hasty
account of his life, but by some magic that had perhaps root in
Peter's own will, no mention was made of his marriage.

Christopher