“No,” said Melton. “I, at least, know nothing, but I surmise a good deal. If I had not been your father’s friend I should, however, never have grasped your motive.” Then the notary was shown in, and Earle rose. “We will wait in the other room,” he said. “Mr. Appleby will no doubt have affairs to talk over with Craythorne.” It was half an hour later when Appleby came out, and found them waiting still. “I understand you are going on to see Miss Wayne, and I should be glad to drive you over,” said Melton. “Then as you can’t get back here to‐night you will have to decide which of us shall have the pleasure of entertaining you. I don’t wish to be unfair to Earle, but I think I am entitled to a preference.” Appleby felt curiously grateful to the gray‐haired officer, but he smiled a little. “I wonder if you realize what you are taking upon yourself, sir?” he said. “If everybody at Northrop heard you were staying with me I should be especially pleased,” said Melton gravely. “Still, in case you did not consider that convenient we will contrive to arrange it differently.” Appleby went with him, and an hour or two later was shown into Mrs. Wayne’s drawing‐room. He waited a little, with unpleasant misgivings, and his heart beating a trifle more rapidly than usual, and then felt a slight relief when Violet and her mother came in. The girl was dressed in a long robe of black that emphasized her pallor, but Appleby was reassured when he noticed her quiet composure. “I felt that you would wish to see me, though I am afraid I can only cause you distress,” he said. Mrs. Wayne pointed to a chair. “You have come a long way,” she said. “We appreciate the consideration for us that brought you.” “I had business with Mr. Craythorne,” said Appleby, with a trace of embarrassment. Then there was a silence he felt horribly unpleasant until Violet Wayne turned her eyes upon him. “Will you tell us—everything—from the time you met Tony in Cuba? There is so much we wish to know,” she said quietly. Appleby, who wished that the obligation had not been laid on him, commenced abruptly in disjointed sentences, but the memories crowded upon him as he proceeded, and he became oblivious of everything but the necessity of making the most of Tony’s part in them. The scenes he pictured became almost more real to him than when they were happening. He was once more in Cuba, and made his listeners see the sun‐scorched hacienda, the long column crawling in the moonlight down the dim white road, the waves of dusky cane, and the glaring streets of Santa Marta. He felt they realized with him the tension of the silence until the rifles flashed, the flitting shadow that brushed through the cane, the tramp of weary feet, and the exultant shouts of the Sin Verguenza.