“Although your son received from me a retaining fee of fifteen thousand dollars a year, he seemed to spend but little money,” he continued. “Each year, at his request, I deposited my personal check, payable to him, for the whole amount with my bankers, Relyea & Farnum. As he seemed to spend little, and, like myself, never ventured a wager, it must have accumulated to a good round sum. I always supposed hitherto that the boy had others dependent on him.” Cringing in his seat, positively cringing, at this latest revelation, Bishop Chalmers heard. To think how he had mistaken his son! Relyea & Farnum, bankers? Their names were familiar. Now the bishop knew who furnished the seed for his harvest. On this point alone could he not reveal the truth to Blaisdell. “It was remarkable how he could handle horseflesh,” continued the latter, in a matter-of-fact tone. “No one else could ride Ixion. I verily believe he would have pined away in any other profession. He was not perfectly happy unless he was about horses. Honest? Why, bishop, the whole racing public be----” He checked the word, smiling to himself. He had started to say “bets on him.” “The whole racing public believes in him,” he declared, gravely. “‘In whatsoever calling,’” murmured the bishop. The patient had been taken into the operating room, was the report that awaited Blaisdell and the bishop on their arrival at the hospital. Nothing was known regarding his condition. Blaisdell whispered to the obsequious interne who met them: “I am ex-Secretary Blaisdell. Your patient is the son of Bishop Chalmers here, and in my employ. You will greatly oblige me by sending for my surgeon, Dr. Abercrombie. Leave no stone unturned to save the boy. And, by the way, doctor----” The departing physician returned to Blaisdell’s side. “If--er--when he regains consciousness--you might tell him that his father, Bishop Chalmers, is waiting to see him. The news might prove of benefit.” In the hallway, too excited and interested to remain quiet in the reception room, the bishop and ex-Secretary Blaisdell paced up and down. A few minutes they had passed thus, conversing together gravely, when the click of small, dainty heels, the rustle of a woman’s skirts, were heard on the bare floor. A tall girl, with light hair; a lovely, highbred creature, gowned in the most approved of summer “creations,” the perfume of whose presence nullified the odor of anæsthetics and antiseptics--a young lady whose features were strikingly like those of Blaisdell--the light of whose blue eyes was dimmed by weeping, threw herself, sobbing, into his arms. “How did you get here, Bettina?” Blaisdell asked her, with something of reproof in his tone. “I saw it--the--oh, it was too terrible!” she cried. “I asked where they had taken him, and followed directly. They said you were here.” Her eyes rested on the bishop, standing near. “Is it--is it so bad as that, father?” she cried, sobbing anew. “Oh, don’t tell me he is----”