The result was brought to John Dale in Charing Cross Hospital by Mr. Redway. The kindly solicitor broke the bad news as best he could. He knew it was no use beating about the bush or trying to deceive the old man. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to alleviate the blow. He could only tell him, and in a gentle pressure of the hand try to convey his deep sympathy—and then leave him. Dale said nothing. He prepared himself for the worst, but the news for the moment was almost more than he could bear. He covered his face, so that none should see it. Fate could deal him no more crushing blow. His son—his first-born—his only son! He prayed that death would come and take him, since there was nothing left to live for. It was so Sir Reginald Crichton a few hours later found him and obtained permission to sit by his side until late into the night. He knew words were useless; but the old man was alone in London, apparently without a friend, and he felt that he could not leave him alone in the great hospital. "You—why are you here?" John Dale asked at last. "You whom we have wronged so grievously." "I, too, am a father," Sir Reginald replied, bending over him. "I also have one son who is the apple of my eye. This thing might have happened to him, Mr. Dale—to my boy. That’s why I am here. We have got to share this thing together." Then for the first time tears shone in Dale’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. He tried to speak, but the poor lips trembled and quivered. "Your son—is a—gentleman. He could never do anything—mean, Sir Reginald." "One never knows," Crichton replied. "Your boy must have been sorely tempted—if he did it." Dale raised himself in his bed, and dashed the tears from his eyes. "He did it," he cried fiercely, "and he must suffer for his sin. It is just he should pay the penalty. I’m an old man; it won’t be easy to hold up my head and face the world now; but I’ll do it. I’ll fight still!" "That’s right!" Sir Reginald said cheerily. "You still have something to fight for.... There’s your daughter, Mr. Dale." Dale started and dropped back on the pillows, hiding his face again. His daughter Marjorie. Sir Reginald’s son loved her—and she loved him. A great wave of hatred for his son swept over him. Not only had he ruined his father, but he would break his sister’s heart and ruin her life.