ld not expose me,
because I know that Marston is dead." The man was ripping out his
story in labored, detached sentences.

Steele looked up with astonished eyes. The girl sat listening, with
her lips parted.

"You see--" the Englishman's voice was impassioned in its
bitterness--"I am not shielding myself. I am giving you the unrelieved
truth. When I determined the fact of his death, I devised a scheme. I
did not at that time know that this American would be able to paint
pictures that could be mistaken for Marston's. Had I known it, I
should have endeavored to ascertain if he would share the scheme with
me. Collaborating in the fraud, we could have levied fortunes from
the art world, whereas in his own name he must have painted a decade
more to win the verdict of his true greatness. I was Marston's agent.
I am Marston's father-in-law. When I speak, it is as his ambassador.
Men believe me. My daughter--" the man's voice broke--"my daughter
lies on her death-bed. For her, there are a few months, perhaps only a
few weeks, left of life. I have provided for her by trading on the
name and greatness of her husband. If you turn me over to the police,
you will kill her. For myself, it would be just, but I am not guilty
of harming Mr. Saxon, and she is guilty of nothing." The narrator
halted in his story, and covered his face with his talon-like fingers.
St. John was not a strong man. The metal of his soul was soft and
without temper. He dropped into a chair, and for a while, as his
auditors waited in silence, gave way to his emotion.

"I tell you," he groaned, "I have at least been true to one thing in
life. I have loved my child. I don't want her punished for my
offenses."

Suddenly, he rose and faced the girl.

"I don't know you," he said passionately, "but I am an old man. I am
an outcast--a derelict! I was not held fit for an introduction, but I
appeal to you. Life can drive a man to anything. Life has driven me to
most things, but not to all. I knew that any day might bring my
exposure. If it had come after my daughter's death, I would have been
satisfied. I have for months been watching her die--wanting her to
live, yet knowing that her death and my disgrace were racing
together." He paused, then added in a quaking voice: "There were days
when I might have been introduced to a woman like you, many years
ago."

Duska was not fitted by nature to officiate at "third degree"
proceedings. As she looked back into the be