but meets with appreciably more or less than its merits. There was
never a second's hesitation about "The Destiny of Phillip Bourke." The
critics praised and the public bought it. Edition followed edition.
Douglas Jesson took his place without an effort amongst the foremost
writers of the day.

And this same success brought him face to face with one of the great
crises of his life. It brought Joan to him, successful at last in her
long search. Their interview, which, if unexpected, must surely have
savoured of the dramatic, was reduced more or less to the commonplace,
from the fact that she came to him prepared, already assured of his
identity, for who else could have immortalised so wonderfully the little
hillside village where they had both been brought up? He walked into
the waiting-room at the Courier equally prepared, for he had seen her
pass the window. She turned and faced him as he entered, carefully
closing the door behind him, with a grim smile of triumph about her
thin, set lips.

"At last, then, Douglas Guest," she exclaimed, laying his book upon the
table. "Are you not weary of skulking under a false name?"

"I chose it as much for your sake as mine, Joan," he gravely replied.

Her black eyes flashed hatred and disbelief upon him.

"You don't imagine that you can make me believe that," she answered,
passionately. "You have fooled many people, but I think your turn has
come at last. I did not come here to listen to any fairy tales."

"You will forgive me if I ask what you did come for, Joan. I would
rather you had come as a friend, but I fear there is no chance of that."

She laughed mockingly.

"I have searched for you many days," she said, "and many nights. I have
ransacked a city which was strange to me; I have walked many hundreds of
miles over its pavements until I have grown sick with disappointments.
And now that I have found you Douglas Guest, you are right when you say
that I do not come as your friend."

"You had a motive, I presume?"

"Yes, I had a motive. I wanted to look into your face and tell you that
the net of my vengeance is drawn close about you, and the cords are
gathered in my hands. To-day you are flushed with triumph, to-morrow
you will be pale with fear."

"Joan," he said, looking across the table into her face, distorted with
passion, "you believe that I killed your father?"

"Believe? I know it!"

"Nevertheless I did not raise my hand against him. I took money because