first impulse was one of anger. It seemed to me that she was taking
advantage of the sympathy which Ray's brutality during our last
interview had forced from me. I spoke to her coldly, almost angrily.

"Mrs. Smith-Lessing," I said, "I regret that I cannot receive you here.
My position just now does not allow me to receive visitors."

She simply raised her veil and sank into the nearest chair. I was
staggered when I saw her face. It was positively haggard, and her eyes
were burning. She looked at me almost with horror.

"I had to come," she said. "I could not keep away a moment longer.
Tell me the truth, Guy Ducaine. The truth, mind!" she repeated,
fearfully.

"What do you mean?" I asked, bewildered. "I do not understand you."

"Tell me the truth about that man who came to see you on the seventh of
January."

I shook my head.

"I have nothing to tell you," I said firmly. "When I found him on the
marshes he was dead. I did not hear till afterwards that he had ever
asked for me."

"This is the truth?" she asked eagerly.

"It is the truth!" I answered.

I could see the relief shine in her face. She was still anxious,
however.

"Is it true," she asked, "that you told a girl in the village, Blanche
Moyat, to keep secret the fact that this man inquired in the village for
the way to your cottage?"

"That also is true," I admitted. "She did not tell me until afterwards,
and I saw no purpose in publishing the fact that the man had been on his
way to see me."

"You have been very foolish," she said. "You have quarrelled with the
girl. She is telling this against you, and there will be trouble."

"I cannot help it," I answered. "I never spoke to the man. I saw
nothing of him until I found him dead."

"Guy!" she cried, "this is an awful thing. I am not sure, but I believe
that the man was your father!"

As often as the thought had comae to me I had thrust it away. This
time, however, there was no escape. The whole hideous scene spread
itself out again before my eyes. I saw the doubled-up body, limp and
nerveless. I felt again the thrill of horror with which one looks for
the first time on death. The mockery of the sunlight filling the air,
gleaming far and wide upon the creek-riven marshes and wet sands, the
singing of the birds, the slow tramp of the wagon horses. All these
things went to fill up that one terrible picture. I looked at the woman
opposite to me, and in her face was some reflection of the horror w