“It’s scarcely needful, Mr. Conover, to adopt that tone. For the sake of the club’s good name, we are simply inquiring into the truth of certain reports of the way your money was made. We--” “It’s my own business how it was made, Mr. Hawarden,” countered Caleb. “The way I spend it is anybody’s business. An’ when I leave this Club I’m willin’ to make public the accounts of some of my disbursements.” Though the retort was not rough of tone and seemed quite harmless,--even vapid--of meaning, Hawarden all at once dropped out of the dispute. In vain did several of his fellow Committeemen who had relied on him to press the prosecution, signal for a renewal of attack. Thenceforth, throughout the session, Hawarden was gloomily mute. But there were others to carry on the attack he had so unexpectedly abandoned. Notably a downy little man who sat at Reuben Standish’s right. “It is said, Mr. Conover,” observed the new assailant, with an air of nervous relish, “that your father was a convict.” Again the murmur of deprecation at the bland brutality of the assault. Caine leaned far forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of Caleb’s silhouetted face, and half expecting to see the downy-haired accusor tossed bodily from the window. For an instant, Conover made no reply. His cigar had gone out and he was busy fumbling for a match. But when he did speak, it was with perfect, unaffected calm. “Yes, Mr. Vroom,” he said, “My father _was_ a convict. He may be one again, by this time, for anything _I_ know. I’ve never set eyes on the old crook since the day they sentenced him to five years in the pen.” He puffed at his cigar. Then rambled on, half to himself: “I was ten years old then. It was my birthday, I remember. The old man had a job in the C. G. & X. coal yards. I came home early from school. Ma had promised me a birthday cake with candles for supper. She an’ dad had planned to have some measly little cel’bration for me, an’ take me a to variety show in the evenin’. I ran home all the way from school. When I got to the ten’ment, there was a crowd of gapin’ kids an’ women around our door. Just then out came a couple of cops with Dad between ’em; an’ Ma followed with her apron over her head, cryin’ to break her heart. I remember she still had one of those silly birthday candles gripped in her hand. She’d been puttin’ it onto the cake when the cops came. After that there wasn’t any talk of birthday sprees in the Conover flat. It was up to us to hustle. An’ we did. My mother went out washin’ an’ as a floor-scrubber. An’ _I_ got a job as tally boy in the C. G. & X. yards. That was my start.” He paused again, looked thoughtfully at his cigar ash and went on in a more business-like tone.