“There is always the tie that binds—the child—and, she belongs by Nature’s bond to me.” But, the man who coarsely counted upon “a previous condition of servitude” as establishing a valid claim upon the Lady of Lakemere, shivered under the cold scorn of her words, for the wife of his youth seated herself, and, gazing into his eyes with an unutterable contempt, read the death warrant of his hopes. “Let me cast up our accounts, here, now, in my home, Arnold Cranstoun, on this winter day, in a solitude on which you shall never intrude again save when I call upon you. “The dead past is buried. Let it rest. Dare not to cry _Resurgam_! I dismiss all your sneers as to Alynton, and, I fear not your circle. You are as yet, but a clumsy neophyte there. “Know, once for all, that your friends are in my power, but they trust to me, and, I am more than worthy of their confidence. “For another circle of men of boundless power also trust me—men who would not trust them, save through me, and, men who would resistlessly crush you at my bidding. “I speak now for the woman who is dead. “Margaret Cranstoun, the woman heart slain by your cowardice, the loving and tender girl-wife. Look back nineteen long years to see yourself the trusted bank-cashier, a rising man of thirty-two. “I was then your slave, your loving slave, a wearer of self-forced heart shackles. I, the girl of seventeen, believed you to be my lover husband—a man among men.” Senator James Garston’s head was bowed in his hands, as the accusing voice rang out. He heard the knell of his last hopes. “A year later, when you basely fled, leaving me, the mother of your two months’ old helpless girl to face the employers whom you had robbed in your hidden speculations, then, only then, I learned of your double life in New York. I knew that I was the innocent hostage of purity and honor. The screen of your dearest vices.” Garston groaned as the voice rose high in its scorn and Elaine Willoughby stood before him, with outstretched arm, an angel with a flaming sword, at the shut gates of his Lost Paradise. “Where you fled to I knew not—I cared not, for, with young blood and a loving heart, I might even have shared the fate of a bold sinner. “But a sneaking coward must learn that woman’s heart condones not poltrooning nor meanness! “You would now hold the dead past over my head—trumpet to the world your own story!” she cried. “I can easily confirm it. I have kept all your letters—the story of your crime, the papers and vouchers which were found in your New York room. “Your letters of egoistic love, your later whining apologies from your unknown Western haunt. And armed with these, _I_ could chase James Garston from the Senate.” The suffering man sprang up. “Not so. I have a right to my name. I legally changed it years ago. The bank is long years out of existence; there is also the limitation of the past years. No one would believe you.” His voice was broken with helpless tears now.