Mrs. Milo fell to rocking nervously. She was enjoying the situation to the full; still--the attitude of Farvel toward this young woman was far from lover-like; while her attitude toward him was marked by hatred badly disguised. Hence an unpleasant and unwelcome thought: What if this "Laura" turned out to be only a relative of the clergyman's! Farvel's apology moved Clare to laughter. "Oh, that's all right," she assured him, impudently; "I understand. The more religious people are, you know, the more vile are their suspicions"--this with a mocking glance at Mrs. Milo. The green velour rocker suddenly stood still, and Mrs. Milo fairly glared at the girl. Clare, seeing that she had gained the result she sought, grinned with satisfaction, and resumed her chair. Farvel had not noticed what passed between the two women. He was watching Wallace. "And you----" he began presently. The younger man straightened, writhed within his clothes as if he were in pain, and went back to his stooping position once more--all with that swiftness which was so like the effect of an electrical current. "Alan," he whispered. "--What had you to do with it?" went on the clergyman. Clare scoffed. "Wallace had nothing to do with it," she declared. "What in the dickens is the matter with you?" "Nothing to do with it?" repeated Farvel. Then, with sudden fury, "Look at him!" He made for Wallace, pushing aside a chair that was not in his way. "Alan! Stop!" Clare rose, and Mrs. Milo rose, too. "Come now, Wallace," Farvel said more quietly. "I want the truth." Mrs. Milo hastened to her son. "Darling, I know you haven't done anything wrong," she said, tenderly. "This 'friend' is trying to shift the blame. Stand up for yourself, my boy. Mother believes in you." Wallace's chin sank to his breast. At the end of his long arms, his hands knotted and unknotted like the hands of a man in agony. "My dearest!" comforted his mother. His suffering was evidence of guilt to Balcome and Farvel; to her it was grief, at having been put under unjust suspicion. He lifted a white face. His eyes were streaming now, his whole body trembling pitifully. "Oh, what'll I do!" he cried. "What'll I do!" He tottered to the chair that Farvel had shoved aside, dropped into it, and covered his face with both hands. "My boy! My boy!" "Don't act like a baby!" Clare came to him, and gave him a smart slap on the shoulder. "Cut it out! You haven't done anything." "Just a moment," interrupted Farvel. He shoved her out of the way as impersonally as he had the chair. Then, "What do you mean by 'What'll do'?" he demanded. And to Clare, pulling at his arm, "Let me alone, I tell you. I'm going to know what's back of this!--_Wallace Milo_!" Slowly Wallace got up. His cheeks were wet. His mouth was distorted, like the mouth of a woeful small boy. His throat worked spasmodically, so that the cords stood out above his collar.