“Hear me!” cried Frederic, and laughed aloud in his recklessness. “Why shouldn't he hear me? I'll not stand it a day longer. He wouldn't think of treating a dog as he treats me. I--I--why, he is actually forcing me to hate him. I _do_ hate him! I swear to Heaven it was in my heart to kill him down there just now. I------” He could not go on. He choked up and the tears rushed to his eyes. Abruptly turning away, he threw himself upon the couch and buried his face on his arms, sobbing like a little child. The old men, distressed beyond the power of speech, mumbled incoherent words of comfort as they slowly edged toward the door. They tiptoed into the hall, and neither spoke until their bedroom door was closed behind them. Mr Dawes even tried it to see that it was safely latched. “It's got to come,” said Mr Riggs, wiping his eyes but neglecting to blow his nose--recollecting in good time the vociferous noise that always attended the performance. “Yes, sir; it's bound to come. There's going to be a smash, mark my words. It can't go on.” He sat down heavily and stared rather pathetically at his friend, who was the picture of lugubrious concern. “Yes, sir,” said Mr Dawes bleakly, “as sure as you're alive, Joey. That boy's spunk is going to assert itself some day, and then--good Lord, what then? He'll curse Jim to his teeth and--and Jim'll up and tell him the truth. I--I don't know what will happen then.” Riggs swallowed hard--a gulping sound. “Freddy's the kind of a feller who'll kill himself, Danny. He's as high strung as a harp. Something will snap. I hate to think of it. Poor lad! It--it ain't his fault that things are not as they ought to be.” “If Jim Brood ever tells him he's no son of his, he'll break the boy's heart.” “I'm not so sure of that,” said Riggs sagely. “Sometimes I think Freddy would be darned glad to know it.” The curtains parted and Yvonne looked in upon the wretched Frederic. There was a look of mingled pain and commiseration in her wide-open eyes. For a moment she stood there regarding him in silence. Then she swiftly crossed the room to the couch in the corner, where he sat huddled up, his shoulders still shaking with the misery that racked him. Her eyes darkened into the hungry, yearning look of one who would gladly share or assume all of the suffering of another whose happiness was dear to her--the look of a gentle mother. The mocking, seductive gleam was gone, and in its place was the glow of infinite pity. Her hand went out to touch the tousled hair, but stopped before contact. Slowly she drew back, with a glance of apprehension toward the door of the Hindu's closet. An odd expression of alarm crept into her eyes. “Frederic,” she said softly, almost timorously. He lifted his head quickly and then sprang to his feet. His eyes were wet and his lips were drawn. Shame possessed him. He tried to smile, but it was a pitiful failure. “Oh, I'm so ashamed of--of----” he began in a choked voice.