“So, so,” said the patroon, trying to soothe her. He only made her worse. In a moment she had risen again and was glowering at him through fierce flashing eyes. “What have you done?” she cried in a frenzy, snapping and wringing her long, bony fingers. “What have you done for me and mine these twenty years, since you had your fill of pleasure out of me?” “Tut, tut, Meg, you are wild to-day.” “Wild I have ever been since you cast me adrift like a gutter drab of Yorke. Tell me what you have done for me and mine.” Her face grew dark and sullen like an animal’s at bay. The patroon glanced about him and half rose to go; but she clutched his wrist and repeated persistently: “What have you done? What have you done? What have you done?” “You know well enough what I have done, my Meg,” said the patroon. He spoke quietly, but I could see that he was in the grip of fear. Was the woman going to make a disclosure? I half expected what it would be, but I did not guess the half. “But what have you done?” she went on, sticking to her one idea. “I have done my best, Meg. You know that I could not do it openly, but I have kept him near me; he wants for nothing.” “Ay, he wants for nothing but his life.” “Life?” cried the patroon. “What do you mean?” She looked at him in contempt and rage. “Who is it that you say wants for nothing?” “Louis, you hag,” he hissed between his teeth. “Louis Van Ramm.” She fell into a mocking laugh that was terrible to hear. “You thought it was Louis, did you? He was my son well enough, born in lawful wedlock; but he was no son of yours. Did you think I told the truth when I came back to live on you? Ha, ha, I was a bonny lass then. Do you remember how you pleaded for my love and the use of my shapely body? ‘I’ll marry you, Meg, if anything goes wrong.’ Those were your very words and everything went wrong and—” Here the patroon caught her by the shoulder and shook her violently. “Stop. If Louis is not our child, who is?” “Ha, ha, ha! You dolt! You idiot! You liar, thief—” She paused for a moment and then almost shrieked out the word “Murderer.” “Murderer!” “Ay, murderer. Louis is my child but none of yours. Our boy is dead. His name was Ronald Guy.” Then she fell to singing that weird scrap of an old ballad that I had heard once before: Is there ony room at your head, Ronald? Is there ony room at your feet? Is there ony room at your side, Ronald, Where fain, fain I wad sleep? The patroon sprang up from where he had been sitting on her bedside. He covered his face with his hands, and, for a moment, swayed back and forth, but he was not taken with one of his seizures as I feared. In a moment more he started for the door. “Follow me, St. Vincent,” he said, and nothing more.