"It is serious. Of all the improbable, dime novel, hellish--But tell me, Bingle: how much do you know?" "How much do I know about what?" "Didn't that fellow blab anything to you last night?" "Bla--blab?" Force pointed to a chair. "Sit down. Are you sure no one can hear what I'm saying?" "No one but yours truly," said Mr. Bingle, assuming a jauntiness he did not feel. He sat down, his back as stiff as a board. His visitor leaned forward, his hands grasping the arms of the chair. "Well, I'll tell you something, Bingle, that will paralyse you. I--I didn't sleep a wink last night." "That doesn't paralyse me. Neither did I--" "This is no time to be funny, Bingle," said the other roughly. "Do you want to know what kept me awake all night, suffering the torments of the damned?" "I do," responded Mr. Bingle, casting a quick glance at Mr. Force's jaw. He knew what it was to have a toothache. "Well, it was that miserable business about--about Kathleen," said Force, a querulous note creeping into his voice. Mr. Bingle did not think it worth while to tell him that it was the same miserable business that kept him awake. "Now, I want the truth, Bingle. I want to be sure before I go ahead. It means a great deal to both of us. Was Kathleen's mother named Agnes Glenn?" "It was," said Mr. Bingle, his eyes narrowing with the dawn of comprehension. "Did you ever see her?" "Once, just before she died." "Describe her, Bingle." "I can't. Good Lord, man, my eyes were blind with tears all the time I was--" "Never mind," broke in Force. "We won't go into that, after all. Did she tell you anything about herself, her past life, her--her trouble?" "Not a word. She was just about to enter the future life, Force. She hadn't much to say. Simply said that she hoped I'd be good to her little baby, that's all. Go on, man." Mr. Force appeared to be lost in bleak abstraction. The curt command brought him out of it with a start. "She went by the name of Mrs. Hinman, you say. No other name was mentioned, then or afterwards?" "No." "I can tell you something about her, Bingle. She lived for three years as the wife of a man who called himself Hinman. She wasn't his wife and that wasn't his name. She'd been on the stage. She went to live with this man as his wife. She was a good girl up to the time she met this man and fell in love with him. Her home was in the West. Her parents were respected, God-fearing people. They never knew that she--that she took up the life she led with--Hinman. Don't interrupt me, Bingle. If I don't get it out now, I'll never have the courage to try it again. No man was ever in such a desperate plight as I find myself in to-day. I'll come straight to the point. I am the man called Hinman and--this child you've got here with you is--mine." He might have had the grace to exhibit some sign of shame or compunction, but he did nothing of the kind. He merely looked defiant, as if expecting Mr. Bingle to say something that he could resent.