and turn deadly
white at the sight of Mr. Gaythorne standing rigid and motionless on
the threshold.

A stifled voice cried, "Alwyn! Good Heavens! it is Alwyn!"--and the
next moment the heavy crutch-handled stick fell from the old man's
trembling hand with a sudden crash.

At the sound, Robert Barton shivered and shrank back against the easel.

Olivia picked it up, and tried to place it in Mr. Gaythorne's hand
again, but he never noticed her. His eyes were fixed with a look of
agonised intensity on the white face of the young artist.

"It is Alwyn," he said again, in the same suppressed voice, "and yet he
does not speak or look at me!" And at the anguish in his tone the
young man raised his head.

"Father, I was not prepared for this," he stammered; "what am I to say
to you?" And then, without advancing a step, he looked round him
wildly. "Father, what does this mean--am I dreaming--where are my
mother and Olive?" Then a low moan of intense pain broke from Mr.
Gaythorne's lips.

"He does not know. Oh, this is too dreadful, Mrs. Luttrell!" He
looked at her almost appealingly, as though his strength were gone, and
then she put her arm round him and guided him gently to a chair.

"Sit quiet for a moment," she whispered; "you are not fit for this."
And as she wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead, his ashen
look terrified her. "Dear Mr. Gaythorne, try to compose yourself.
Shall I ring for Mrs. Crampton?--perhaps she would know what to do."
But he shook his head vehemently.

"No, no--only give me time. Ah, look there!"--for the blind hound that
had just come into the room was now whining and fawning upon Robert
Barton in the most excited way.

"Eros knows him. Alwyn,"--trying to raise his voice, but it was
strangely feeble--"come nearer to me. When I told you you were never
to see my face again, that you were no son of mine, I was labouring
under a grievous mistake. I know now who forged that cheque--I have
known it for years. No, with all your faults you never did that." And
as he said this Mr. Gaythorne put out a shaking hand to his son, but
the young man did not take it. There was a fierce, angry light in his
blue eyes and a contemptuous smile on his lips.

"I am glad you have done me this tardy justice, sir," he said, in a
firmer tone, "and that I have heard from your own lips that I am no
criminal. When we parted, I remember you threatened me with penal
servitude. No, I have not dis