“Jesse Trasmere was very frank. That was one of his charms. He told me he knew my deplorable history and he wanted somebody about whom he knew a few discreditable facts! He said that in almost those identical words: ‘You’ll have to go along as I want you,’ he said, ‘and the higher you get, and the more successful you become, the less you will want the news published that your father was a murderer.’ And yet, curiously enough, he never objected to my taking my own name, for Ardfern is my name, for professional purposes. I don’t suppose anybody at that dingy Institute associates me with the skinny little girl who used to scrub and peel and toil at uninteresting lessons from morning until night.” “What was your father?” asked Tab with an effort, for he expected that any reference to her parents must still wound her. To his surprise she answered readily. “He was an actor,” she said, “and I think he was a clever actor until he took to drink. It was in drink that he murdered my mother. That much I learnt at the home--I have not troubled to enquire since. What are you thinking about, Tab?” His forehead was knit. “I am trying to recall the execution of any person named Ardfern in the last twenty years, I know them all by name,” he said slowly. “Have you a telephone?” She nodded. In three minutes Tab was talking to the news editor of the “Megaphone.” “Jacques,” he said, “I want some information. Do you remember any person named Ardfern being executed for murder in the last--” he looked round at the girl--“seventeen or eighteen years?” “No,” was the instant reply. “There was a man named Ardfern against whom a coroner’s verdict of manslaughter was returned but he skipped the country.” “What was his first name?” asked Tab eagerly. “I am not sure that it was Francis or Robert. No, it was Willard--Willard Ardfern. I remember there were two ‘ards’ in it,” said the information bureau. “In what town was this crime committed?” Jacques answered without hesitation, giving the name of a small country town that Tab knew well. He hung up the receiver and turned to the girl. “What was your father’s name?” he asked. “Willard,” she replied without hesitation. “Phew!” whistled Tab, and wiped his streaming forehead. “Your father was not hanged.” He saw her go red and white. “Are you sure?” she asked. “Perfectly sure. Old Jacques never makes a mistake. Besides which, he had the name pat when I asked him. Willard Ardfern. He was indicted for manslaughter. I fear that your unhappy mother died of his violence but Willard Ardfern himself left the country and was never arrested or tried.” His arm went round her in support, she had gone suddenly white and ill-looking. “Thank God,” she whispered. “That seemed--worse--than killing my poor mother. Oh Tab, it has been such a nightmare to me! Such a dreadful, dreadful weight. You can’t know how I felt about it.”