“Do you suppose—” Curtis Lauderdale himself put the question—“that otherwise I’d permit my dear girl to conduct this search against our enemies?” “But the war—at your age, sir?” murmured Pape. “Weren’t there enough of us who were young and free of family responsibilities to go into service?” Again that rarely beautiful smile from eyes which appeared somehow to see more than was visible to those blessed with sight. “I was willing for you youngsters to do the actual fighting. But I felt called upon to take some part. What are two eyes compared with the inner knowledge that you did your bit? I only helped to make trench life easier, along with many other K-C’s and wearers of the ‘Y.’” “And how did they—get you?” “Enemy gas bombs didn’t respect non-combative insignia or uniforms. One of them blinded me and the gray horde got—well, one more American prisoner. I was later than most getting back home.” There was a vitality in his manner—a throb of pure joy in his voice—which eased the poignancy of the younger man’s pity and reminded him that one mercy amid the heartbreaks of the big fight would seem to be the compensation seen by those whose gaze has been focused forever inward. Pape turned from father to daughter. “But your aunt, Mrs. Sturgis, told me that your father was——” “Yes.” Again Jane divined his perplexity. “Aunt Helene thinks that dad ‘went West,’ as they say, in the war. She was very much against his going. And when he came back so late and so—so much the worse for wear, he and I decided that she and the rest should continue to believe the report which had preceded him across the Atlantic, at least until after we forced——” She did not hesitate; just stopped, having said what she evidently considered enough. As she showed no curiosity over the when, where or whyfore of auntie’s confidence, Pape forced upon her no report, either of that interview or the canter through conversational and Central Park by-paths with Cousin Irene. Rather, he gave to the charm of personality in the older man—a magnet toward which he had turned willingly since Jane’s justification in that quiet “my father.” “But since you are freed, sir—now that you are back——” Jane’s eyes stopped him, so dark with suspicion was their blue. “I don’t know just what is back of your interest, Why-Not Pape. But it will do no harm, whichever side you are on, to admit a truth about my father known to both his friends and foes. He is under a shadow—an undeserved disgrace which culminated in an indictment. Until that shadow is dissipated it is better that none should know he has come back. What I decided to trust you with before you found it out for yourself, was the identity of the man with whom you thought that I——” “I am too grateful—” in his turn Pape interrupted—“ever to let you regret that trust.” He spoke as he felt, with revealing sincerity. His look held hers; the thrill of his voice the moment.