“I am sorry for that, but you must hear the rest. Uncle Foster, why did you refuse to tell me what Bob said to you and what you said to him the other day at his studio?” “Eh? What are you talking about? I didn’t refuse.” “Yes, you did. Or, at any rate, you told me nothing that amounted to anything. You did not tell me that he charged you with planning my trip to Europe merely to get me away from him--and canceling it when you found he was going. You didn’t tell me that, nor that you admitted it was true. Yes,” bitterly, “and boasted of your cleverness, gloried in your trickery. You didn’t mention that.” She had caught him again. He had no defense ready. The suddenness of the accusation left him mute and staring. “How--how on earth did you know about that?” he gasped. “Bob, himself, told me. I went down there to see him yesterday afternoon.” His face, already flushed, grew redder still as this paralyzing statement forced itself upon his comprehension. He drew back slowly. “_What!_” he roared. “You went down to that shanty to see that fellow?” “Yes.” “Good God! Why--why, what do you mean by it? Didn’t I tell you never to go near that place again?” “Yes.” “Didn’t you promise me you wouldn’t?” “Yes.” “Then--then--what--” “I broke my promise. I had to. When I heard the things they were saying about him I--I had to find out. So I went, that is all. I didn’t learn all I hoped to learn. He wouldn’t tell me why Seymour was there on that road that night, although I think he knew, or could guess. I suppose--it would be like him--he would not tell tales concerning another fellow. But he did tell me of his talk with you and--and....” Her voice broke. “Oh, Uncle,” she finished, desperately, “how could you!” The misery in her tone, the tears in her eyes, her sudden plea for understanding, did not move him. At another time they would have done so, but not then. He offered no excuses. He did not attempt denial. The fact that she had gone, alone and in spite of his orders and her promise, to see Griffin was sufficient. All his delusions, all his conceit in the triumph of his scheming, all his silly, easy confidence that her interest in Elisha Cook’s grandson was a thing of the dead past--all these were blown away like a summer fog by that one disclosure. She had paid no attention to his wishes, his commands--she had defied him--him, Foster Townsend. If she had been a man he would have knocked her down. “What!--” he shouted. “What’s that? How could I? How could _you_, you better say! Going there to see the scamp the whole town is talking about! Mixing your name up with his! Letting them talk about _you_ now! Why--why--” She lifted a hand. “Don’t!” she begged. “Please don’t!”