Mostyn suddenly rose, walked to a window, and looked out. "What time do you have luncheon?" He glanced at his watch. Mrs. Moore made no reply. She suddenly fixed a curious, groping stare on him and moved to his side. "Dick, what has happened?" she demanded, touching his arm. "Nothing," he answered. "I've been busy; I'm tired. I thought a cup of strong coffee might--" Her fingers clutched his arm. "Out with it, Dick. Something has gone wrong at the bank. You are in trouble again. You've been plunging. I feel it. I see it in your eyes. I have never seen you look like this before. You haven't a bit of blood in your face." She grasped his hand, stroking his fingers. "Why, you are actually cold. What is the matter? What is the matter, brother? You can trust me." He avoided her eyes, going back to the divan and sinking upon it. "You may as well know," he blurted out, in desperation. "Irene and Buckton have gone off together." "No, no, no! Don't tell me that!" The woman paled; her lower lip fell and hung trembling. "You have heard gossip, as I have, and as every one has, and in your excited frame of mind--" He told her of the note from Irene. He started to take it from his pocket, but changed his mind, recalling the allusion to Marie Winship, and not having energy enough to explain it. "Lord have mercy!" she gasped. She sat down by him, her hand on his knee, her horrified eyes glued to his. "It is awful! I didn't think she would go that far--nobody did, because she refused him when she married you. I wish I could advise you, but there is nothing to be done now. Of course, she left the child." "Yes, I'd have killed her if she had taken him. I would, by God! He's all I've got." "And worse than motherless," Mrs. Moore sighed. "It is awful--awful! Irene is crazy for excitement and novelty. She has been getting worse and worse. She thinks she loves Andy Buckton, but she doesn't. She never loved any one but herself in her life. Mark my words, she will leave him. She will tire of him. She will never stand the disgrace of the thing, either. She has been petted all her life by society, and its cold shoulder will kill her. What a tragedy! But she brought it on herself." "She didn't!" he said, grimly. "I had a hand in it. Her father had a hand in it. She was a straw in a mad stream. I can't blame her. I can't even be angry. I pity her. I'd save her if I could, but it is too late. The insane set that helped to wreck her life will chuckle and grin now." A musical gong in the dining-room sounded softly. "That's luncheon," Mrs. Moore said. "Let's go out. Do you want to run up and wash your hands?" He shook his head dumbly, looking at his splayed fingers with the vacant stare of an invalid just recovering consciousness. "I want only the coffee; make it strong, please. I really am not hungry. The thought of food, somehow, is sickening. I've worked hard this morning."