Late that afternoon, still shrinking under his weighty secret, he went home. The slanting rays of the setting sun lay like kindling flames on the grass of the lawn. He saw little Dick and Hilda seated on the lowest step of the veranda; and, seeing him entering the gate, the child rose and slowly limped toward him. "Dick got a stomach-ache," the boy said, a wry look on his rather sallow and pinched face. Mostyn paused and bent down. "Where does it hurt you?" he asked, automatically, for the complaint seemed a slight thing compared to the tragedy lowering over them both. "It's here, Daddy." Dick put his little tapering hand on his right side. "He eats too many sweet things," the nurse said, coming up. "He's been complainin' of his stomach for the last week, but he will eat what he oughtn't to. I've got some good stomach medicine. I'm goin' to dose 'im well to-night an' make 'im stay out o' the kitchen. The cook lets him have everything he wants." "Give him the medicine, and tell the cook she must stop feeding him." Mostyn took the boy in his arms and started on to the house. "You will stop eating trash, won't you, Dick?" The child nodded, worming his fingers through his father's hair. He took off Mostyn's hat, put it on his bonny head, and laughed faintly. Reaching the veranda, Mostyn turned him over to Hilda, who said she was going to give him a bath and put him to bed. When they had gone Mostyn went into the library. The great portrait-hung room in the shadows seemed a dreary, accusing place, and he was turning to leave when the rustling of a newspaper and a little nasal snort called his attention to a high-backed chair of the wing type in which his father-in-law reclined and was just waking from a nap. "Oh, is that you?" Mitchell yawned and stretched his arms. "I was wondering when you'd get here. I've been to the gate several times." "Anything you want?" Mostyn regretted the impulsive question the instant the words had been spoken. The old man put his hands on the arms of the chair and stood up, feebly. "Yes, I want to know if your wife has written or telegraphed you since she got to Knoxville?" "No," Mostyn thought rapidly, "but--but I hardly expected her to. She doesn't usually when she is away." "It is the very Old Nick in you both!" Mitchell sniffed. "I don't expect you to know or care what she's up to; but I'm her own flesh and blood, and supposed to be interested more or less. Home is lonely enough when she is here in town, without her being off so much. Besides, I know some things--humph! Well, I'm no fool, if I _am_ a back number. To-day I made it my business to inquire if a certain party--you know who I mean--was in town. I knew in reason that he wouldn't be, but I just asked to satisfy my mind. Do you get at my meaning, sir?" "I think I do." Mostyn's own words seemed to him to come from the heavy folds of the portiere hiding the desolate drawing-room beyond.