“Ah,” said Nick, “that is what I have suspected! Do not distress yourself by telling me too many details, Mrs. Clayton,” he added considerately. “The essential facts are all that I want.” “They may be briefly told, Mr. Carter,” she said, with a grateful look at him. “My husband was a bad man, much worse than I even dreamed of when I married him. I discovered his despicable character much too late.” “Was he a criminal?” “Yes.” “May I know his name?” “Why not? He has been dead many years. His name was Gideon Margate.” Nick had heard of him, a notorious English crook, who had died in a German prison something like ten years before. He considerately suppressed the fact that he knew of the man, however, and said kindly: “You are in no degree culpable, Mrs. Clayton, for the mistakes and misdeeds of your husband. What more can you tell me?” “Two years after the birth of my children, Mr. Carter, my husband disappeared, taking with him one of my sons,” she replied. “I never saw Gideon Margate again.” “Nor the child?” “The child was named David. I will not undertake to tell you what I suffered from losing him, from my inability to trace him, and from my terrible fear of the life to which he would be bred.” “That of a criminal?” “Yes.” “And your fears came true?” “Terribly so.” “Tell me the bare facts?” “I took my maiden name, Julia Clayton, about a year after my husband disappeared,” she continued. “I suspected that he was in America, and in the hope of recovering my other son, we came here, and since have lived here. I have been in England only once since then, and that was twelve years ago. I then saw in a London newspaper the picture of a criminal who had just been sent to prison for five years for burglary.” “You recognized him?” “Yes.” “Your son?” “David Margate--yes.” “Did you see him personally, or do anything about it?” “Neither,” said Mrs. Clayton sadly. “What could I do? The die was cast. My husband had shaped the boy’s life. That he should become a criminal after arriving at the age of judgment and discretion showed only too plainly that he had inherited Gideon Margate’s criminal traits.” “I agree with you,” said Nick. “Thank God!” Mrs. Clayton fervently added; “he left me the child who had inherited my own character. Chester Clayton is above knavery and crime.” “I agree with you again,” said Nick. “Now, Mrs. Clayton, let’s come to the points bearing upon his case. Does Chester know anything about his father and twin brother?” “No, no, indeed,” she said quickly. “He knows only that his father is dead. He does not so much as dream that he has a brother. I could not cloud his life, mar his whole future, perhaps, by acknowledging David Margate to be my son, when I learned that he was in an English prison. It would, have been an injustice to Chester Clayton. The sacrifice would have been too great.”