big splash as a little one. If you got any questions to ask, heave
ahead and ask 'em. Fire away, I don't care," he added, recklessly.

But Mary shook her head. She did not even turn to look at him.

"Perhaps I may ask them some other time," she said. "Not now. Thank you
for telling me so much. Good night."

Alone in her own room once more she sat down to think. It was plain
enough now. All the parts of the puzzle fitted together. Edwin Smith
having been proved to be Edgar Farmer, everything was explainable. It
had seemed queer to her, Mr. Smith's aversion to the East, his refusal
to come East even to his son's graduation; but it was not at all queer
that Edgar Farmer, the embezzler, should feel such an aversion, or
refuse to visit a locality where, even after all these years, he might
be recognized. It was not odd that he disliked to be photographed. And
it certainly was not strange that he should have behaved as he did
when his son announced the intention of marrying her, Mary Lathrop,
stepdaughter of one of his former partners and victims' and adopted
niece and ward of the other two.

What a terrible surprise and shock Crawford's communication must have
been to him! The dead past, the past he no doubt had believed buried
forever, had risen from the tomb to confront him. His only son, the
boy he idolized, who believed him to be a man of honor, whose love and
respect meant more than the world to him--his only son asking to marry
the ward of the man whom he had wronged beyond mortal forgiveness,
asking to marry her and intimating that he would marry her whether or
no. And the secret which he had guarded so jealously, had hidden from
his son and the world with such infinite pains, suddenly threatening to
be cried aloud in the streets for all, his boy included, to hear. Mary
shuddered as she realized what the man must have felt. It must have
seemed to him like the direct hand of avenging Providence. No wonder
he at first could not believe it to be merely accident, coincidence; no
wonder that he asked if Zoeth Hamilton had sent Crawford to him, and had
demanded to know what Zoeth Hamilton had told.

It was dreadful, it was pitiful. She found herself pitying Edwin
Smith--or Edgar Farmer--even though she knew the retribution which had
come upon him was deserved.

She pitied him--yes; but now she could spare little pity for others, she
needed as much herself. For minute by minute, as she sat there thinking
out this great