distinguished schools.

But no one was more constantly in attendance than Alfred St. John. He
divided his time between the bedside of his daughter and the lodgings
where Marston lay. The talk that filled the Latin Quarter, and
furiously excited the studio on the floor below, was studiously kept
from the girl confined to her couch upstairs.

One day while St. John was in the _Rue St. Jacques_, pacing the small
_cour_ with Steele and Herve, Jean Hautecoeur came in hurriedly. His
manner was that of anxious embarrassment, and for a moment he paused,
seeking words.

St. John's face turned white with a divination of his tidings.

"Does she need me?" he asked, almost breathlessly.

Hautecoeur nodded, and St. John turned toward the door. Steele went
with him, and, as they climbed the steep stairs, the old man leaned
heavily on his support.

The Kentuckian waited in St. John's room most of that night. In the
next apartment were the girl, her father and the physician. A little
before dawn, the old man came out. His step was almost tottering, and
he seemed to have aged a decade since he entered the door of the
sick-room.

"My daughter is dead," he said very simply, as his guest paused at the
threshold. "I am leaving Paris. My people except for me have borne a
good name. I wanted to ask you to save that name from exposure. I
wanted to bury with my daughter everything that might shadow her
memory. For myself, nothing matters."

Steele took the hand the Englishman held tremblingly outstretched.

"Is there anything else I can do?" he asked.

St. John shook his head.

"That will be quite all," he answered.

Such things as had to be done, however, Steele did, and two days
later, when Alfred St. John took the train for Calais and the Channel,
it was with assurances that, while they could not at this time cheer
him, at least fortified him against all fear of need.

It was a week later that Cornish sent for the Kentuckian, who was
waiting in the court.

"I think you can see him now," said the physician briefly, "and I
think you will see a man who has no gaps in his memory."

Steele went with some misgiving to the sick-room. He found Marston
looking at him with eyes as clear and lucid as his own. As he came up,
the other extended a hand with a trembling gesture of extreme
weakness. Steele clasped it in silence.

For a time, neither spoke.

While Steele waited, the other's face became drawn. He was evidently
strugglin