Alynton, closeted with Judge Endicott, was now urgent in his demand that Mrs. Elaine Willoughby should at once erase the name of the dead Senator from the dangerous document held by her in a mysterious trust. “That document must never see the light.” It must be destroyed at once, and a new “round robin” signed. “It will have to be surrendered now, and a new one made,” anxiously said the excited millionaire. “We owe safety to our living associates, and perfect faith to our allied friends of the Sugar Syndicate.” “Perhaps as Mrs. Willoughby was a close friend of Garston’s she may know some of the details of his early life. I wish that you would have her guide me. Go and see her. I am in practical charge of the funeral, and so shall be very busy.” “What can she know?” demanded the old lawyer. “I’m told by the Trust Company’s man that he has left half of his great fortune to a young ward of Mrs. Willoughby’s—some young girl.” There was a tinkling sound of breakage. Alynton gazed curiously at the old Judge as he slowly picked up the fragments of his shattered eyeglasses. “You are right. Do nothing till you hear from me. I will go to her, and come to you at the Waldorf,” said the startled lawyer. “She should know of this at once.” “Thank God! He knows nothing of Garston’s mad pursuit of Elaine in marriage and his schemes about her child. He even thinks them friends. Better so. But, the girl must return at once. Death has made her way smooth.” And Endicott went sighing on his way. Telephoning for Hugh Conyers, the old advocate hastened to the “Circassia” to a conference with the white-faced invalid who burst into a storm of tears when Endicott told her the story of the strange legacy. “Let Hugh cable at once to Stockholm. Have them come back here by Havre, without a moment’s delay. Let him sign all three of our names, and let him also send a separate cable to Sara that Romaine is to know nothing of the death, and not a word as yet, of this strange legacy. I will inform her of that myself,” she sobbed. “It is all so strange, so ghastly,” she murmured. The self-protective instinct of the mother brought to her a new life. “No one knows; no one even suspects. There is not a single whisper. Thank God!” And then she vowed on her knees, when left alone, to be brave and true for the child’s sake. And Hiram Endicott respected her imperial grief. When he returned from dispatching Conyers to recall the fatherless child, he mused: “It is better that I should know nothing more, for there is a strange tangle here.” And so he was not astonished when his client bade him come back to her on the morrow to escort her to the room of Garston’s last solemn public reception. “I must see him again for Romaine’s sake. I must look once more upon the face of the father of my child,” was the solemn voice of Nature sweeping away all the meshes of the frail barrier of human hatred which had held them apart.