kness of human nature; the thing was uncrushable, insistent.
Packing cases!

"Denny! Jane!" he cried, and bolted for the door.

The call needed no interpretation. The two understood, and followed him
downstairs precipitately, with the startled Benson the tail to the kite.

"No, no!" shouted Cleigh. "The big one first!" as Dennison laid one of the
smaller cases on the floor. "Benson, where the devil is the claw hammer?"

The butler foraged in the coat closet and presently emerged with a prier.
Cleigh literally snatched it from the astonished butler's grasp, pried and
tore off a board. He dug away at the excelsior until he felt the cool
glass under his fingers. He peered through this glass.

"Denny, it's the rug!"

Cleigh's voice cracked and broke into a queer treble note.

Jane shook her head. Here was an incurable passion, based upon the
specious argument that galleries and museums had neither consciences nor
stomachs. You could not hurt a wall by robbing it of a painting--a passion
that would abide with him until death. Not one of these treasures in the
casings was honourably his, but they were more to him than all his
legitimate possessions. To ask him to return the objects to the galleries
and museums to which they belonged would be asking Cleigh to tear out his
heart. Though the passion was incomprehensible, Jane readily observed its
effects. She had sensed the misery, the anxiety, the stinging curiosity
of all these months. Not to know exactly what had become of the rug and
the paintings! Not to know if he would ever see them again! There was only
one comparison she could bring to bear as an illustration: Cleigh was like
a man whose mistress had forsaken him without explanations.

She was at once happy and sad: happy that her faith in Cunningham had not
been built upon sand, sad that she could not rouse Cleigh's conscience.
Secretly a charitable man, honest in his financial dealings, he could
keep--in hiding, mind you!--that which did not belong to him. It was
beyond her understanding.

An idea, which had been nebulous until this moment, sprang into being.

"Father," she said, "you will do me a favour?"

"What do you want--a million? Run and get my check book!" he cried,
gayly.

"The other day you spoke of making a new will."

Cleigh stared at her.

"Will you leave these objects to the legal owners?"

Cleigh got up, brushing his knees.

"After I am dead? I never thought of that. After I'm dead," h