At last the suspense became unbearable. He had noticed a slight change in Jane's manner and at once attributed it to something his wife had said, for Jane had been allowed in the sick-room. The discovery that she was not his child had not as yet struck deep into his understanding. In a vague sort of way he realised that she was different, now that he knew, but it was impossible for him to consider her in any other light than that of the years gone by. The time would come when the full realisation would cut into his heart more deeply than now, but at present a calamity of his own making was forcing all other troubles into the background. His greatest desire was to reach his wife's side, to know the worst that could come of his suit for forgiveness. The evening of the second day he swore that he would see her--and alone. They admitted him and he entered trembling in every nerve. She was lying, white and haggard, in her bed, her back toward him. He paused for an instant and was certain that he saw her shudder violently. It was significant. She feared and loathed him. "Is it you, David?" he heard her ask weakly. "At last! Oh, I was afraid that something had happened to you! That---" He threw himself on his knees beside the bed and wept with all the pent-up bitterness and misery that was in him--and still he was afraid to speak to her. Not a word left his lips until he felt her hand in his hair--a tender, timid hand. It was then that he began pouring forth his cry for forgiveness. With a groan, he checked her own appeal for mercy. "We can talk about Jane another time, not now," he cried. "I must know that you forgive me--I don't care for anything--nothing else in the world." When the nurse came in a few minutes later, he was sitting upon the edge of the bed holding her hands in his. Their faces were radiant. "Please stay out," he said, almost gruffly. "For just a little while," his wife added gently. The nurse hesitated a moment and then left the room. Frances Cable told him Jane's history so far as it was known to her. He listened dully. "She will never know her true parents," said she in the end. "No, I suppose not," said he, looking out of the window. "You understand, don't you, David, dear," she said feebly; "how I dreaded to have you learn the truth after all these years, and above all, how I hoped that Jane might never know. I tried every means in my power to buy James Bansemer's silence. It was not money that he wanted, it was..." she buried her head shamefully in her arms; after a moment, she went on: "He professes to love his son, but his is the love an animal gives the offspring it would destroy. And yet Graydon worships him." "Are you quite sure that Graydon is as unsuspecting as you think?" "In regard to his father?" "In regard to Jane."