“Haven’t I?” sneered the hot-headed young man. “Listen. I have been looking up Geoffrey Dale’s pedigree, since I saw you last. I have traced him to his birthplace. His mother was a poor, but beautiful girl, without a home, without friends. She had a rich lover, who could not marry her without sacrificing a fortune, and he loved his money too well to do that, so he sacrificed the girl instead. He took her to a remote mining district, where, hidden away from every one who ever knew her, she lived with him for one short year, and died when her child was only a month old. That child was Geoffrey Dale; his mother’s name was Annie Dale, and he has no right to any other, except the one that has been given him for charity’s sake. You have a right to be proud of your betrothed, Miss Huntress.” “I am proud of him!” Gladys returned, in a firm, even tone. Astonishment at Everet Mapleson knowing so much about Geoffrey had contributed more toward calming her excited nerves than almost anything else could have done. “Yes, I am _proud_ of him,” she repeated, with a change of emphasis, “and you have told me nothing _new_, Mr. Mapleson. excepting that this young girl had no home or friends, and that the man who took her to New Mexico was rich, and willfully wronged her. Indeed, I know even more than you have told me.” “_More!_ Do you know who his father was?” Everet Mapleson exclaimed, with a start. “No, nor do I wish to, if he was guilty of the atrocious act you have named,” Gladys returned, with withering scorn, “But the sin will some day recoil upon his own head: it can never change my regard for one who is innately noble and true.” “And you do not shrink from becoming the wife of one upon whom shame has rested from the hour of his birth?” demanded Everet Mapleson, regarding the beautiful girl with astonishment. “No,” she replied, steadfastly; “no shame rests upon _him_; that all belongs to the preceding generation; but I should shrink with loathing from the man who betrayed Annie Dale, as you represent, were he lord or prince—he is only worthy of my contempt, and I would scorn him as I would the veriest blackleg in this city.” The young man flushed hotly. It was not pleasant to listen to such words, believing what he did; they touched a sensitive spot. “But this man of whom I have told you is a gentleman, nevertheless,” he said. “_A gentleman?_” The words were uttered in the quietest possible tone, but the contempt which trembled through it was matchless, and made the young man wince as under a lash. “Your distinctions are more nice than wise, Miss Huntress; but, mark my words, you shall never marry this man’s illegitimate son!” he hissed, driven almost to a frenzy by her words, her look, and tone. She turned upon him, her face colorless, but with eyes gleaming like two points of fire.