he won't forget. I'm going to get
Bobby's money, or have the law do it--unless you think I'm a brute,
Nett." She looked at him wistfully.

"That's all right. Don't worry about me, Jo. He's my brother, but I know
him--I know him through and through. He's done everything that a man can
do and not be hanged. A thief, a drunkard, and a brute--and he killed a
man out here," he added hoarsely. "I found it out myself--myself. It was
murder."

Suddenly, as he looked at her, an idea seemed to flash into his mind.
He came very near and looked at her closely. Then he reached over and
almost touched the scar on her forehead.

"Did he do that, Jo?"

For an instant she was silent and looked down at the floor. Presently
she raised her eyes, her face suffused. Once or twice she tried to
speak, but failed. At last she gained courage and said:

"After Cynthy's death I kept house for him for a year, taking care
of little Bobby. I loved Bobby so--he has Cynthy's eyes. One day
Dorland--oh, Nett, of course I oughtn't to have stayed there, I know it
now; but I was only sixteen, and what did I understand! And my mother
was dead. One day--oh, please, Nett, you can guess. He said something to
me. I made him leave the house. Before I could make plans what to do, he
came back mad with drink. I went for Bobby, to get out of the house, but
he caught hold of me. I struck him in the face, and he threw me against
the edge of the open door. It made the scar."

Foyle's face was white. "Why did you never write and tell me that, Jo?
You know that I--" He stopped suddenly.

"You had gone out of our lives down there. I didn't know where you were
for a long time; and then--then it was all right about Bobby and me,
except that Bobby didn't get the money that was his. But now--"

Foyle's voice was hoarse and low. "He made that scar, and he--and you
only sixteen--Oh, my God!" Suddenly his face reddened, and he choked
with shame and anger. "And he's my brother!" was all that he could say.

"Do you see him up here ever?" she asked pityingly.

"I never saw him till a week ago." A moment, then he added: "The letter
wasn't to be sent here in his own name, was it?"

She nodded. "Yes, in his own name, Dorland W. Foyle. Didn't he go by
that name when you saw him?"

There was an oppressive silence, in which she saw that something moved
him strangely, and then he answered: "No, he was going by the name of
Halbeck--Hiram Halbeck."

The girl gasped. Then the