d Pat and Peter walking in, as if they had
been hypnotically summoned. They hadn't heard the visitors' arrival, but
had evidently expected to find Jack and me alone. I saw by a glance at
Pat's face that the interview had made some call upon her emotions; but
I didn't think she looked wild enough to have heard the whole secret.
Besides, they'd hardly been away long enough for all that--and the other
things Jack and I had so vividly imagined. They both paused for a second
at the door, and Pat had the air of wishing she were somewhere else. She
braced herself up, however, for a scene, and marched in with her head
up--Peter Storm by her side. I saw Peter's eyes pick out the little man
Thomas Dawson, whom Caspian pushed slightly forward. Peter was
surprised, no doubt of that, but he seemed also amused, as if his quick
mind had grasped the situation. His look travelled to Jack's face and
mine. He smiled at us. Then, "Hello, Dawson!" said he.

"Good lord, sir!" gasped Dawson, turning green, and losing power over
his knees. He grabbed at Caspian for support, was haughtily pushed away,
and tumbled into a chair, like a jelly out of its mould. As it chanced,
the chair was a rocking-chair, and the conjunction was undignified.

"What's the matter?" Ed questioned sharply. "Why don't you speak up? Is
this man's name Marcel Moncourt?"

"No, sir, it's Stanislaws. He's--he's the young master--or else he's a
ghost."

* * * * *

There, my dear, the Secret's out! Perhaps, if you've been able to keep
track of Caspian's antecedents as described in my letters, you've
guessed it already. But in case you haven't attached much importance to
that part of the affair, I'll just remind you that Ed Caspian was lifted
out of the ranks of his fellow socialists and capital haters, by
becoming a capitalist himself, on the death of two distant cousins,
Stanislaws' father and Stanislaws' son, tremendous millionaires. The old
man died some time before the young one, who disappeared with the
_Lusitania_ and was reported drowned. You can imagine the effect on Ed
when, instead of crushing the enemy, he found himself crushed. He turned
tallow-white, glaring at Dawson, staring at Storm, and stammered out: "I
don't believe you! It's a lie!"

"No, Caspian, it's not a lie," said Peter Storm, whom Jack and I have
known since Wenham as Pietro Stanislaws. He spoke almost gently. "I
meant to stay dead--not for your sake, but for my o