“Watts,” cried Mrs. D’Alloi, coming forward, “of what child are you talking? Whose child? Who is this woman?” Watts jumped as if he had been shot. Celestine even retreated before the terrible voice and face with which Mrs. D’Alloi asked her questions. A sad, weary look came into Peter’s eyes. No one answered Mrs. D’Alloi. “Answer me,” she cried “My dear little woman. Don’t get excited. It’s all right.” Watts managed to say this much. But he did not look his last remark. “Answer me, I say. Who is this woman? Speak!” “It’s all right, really, it’s all right. Here. Peter will tell you it’s all right.” “Peter,” cried Mrs. D’Alloi. “Of whose child were you speaking?” Peter was still standing by the desk. He looked sad and broken, as he said: “This is the mother, Mrs. D’Alloi.” “Yes? Yes?” Peter raised his eyes to Helen’s and looked at her. Then he said quietly: “And Watts—will tell you that—I am its father.” CHAPTER XXXV. RUNNING AWAY. The dramatic pause which followed Peter’s statement was first broken by Mrs. D’Alloi, who threw her arms about Watt’s neck, and cried: “Oh! my husband. Forgive me, forgive me for the suspicion!” Peter turned to Celestine. “Madame,” he said. “We are not wanted here.” He unlocked the door into the hall, and stood aside while she passed out, which she did quietly. Another moment found the two on the sidewalk. “I will walk with you to your hotel, if you will permit me?” Peter said to her. “Certainly,” Celestine replied. Nothing more was said in the walk of ten blocks. When they reached the hotel entrance, Peter asked: “Can you see me for a few moments?” “Yes. Come to my private parlor.” They took the elevator, and were but a moment in reaching that apartment. Peter spoke the moment the door was closed. “Madame,” he said, “you saw that scene. Spare his wife and child? He is not worth your anger.” “Ah, Ciel!” cried Celestine, emotionally. “Do you think so lowly of me, that you can imagine I would destroy your sacrifice? Your romantic, your dramatic, _mon Dieu!_ your noble sacrifice? Non, non. Celestine Lacour could never do so. She will suffer cruelty, penury, insults, before she behaves so shamefully, so perfidiously.” Peter did not entirely sympathize with the Frenchwoman’s admiration for the dramatic element, but he was too good a lawyer not to accept an admission, no matter upon what grounds. He held out his hand promptly. “Madame,” he said, “accept my thanks and admiration for your generous conduct.” Celestine took it and shook it warmly. “Of course,” said Peter. “Mr. D’Alloi owes you an ample income.” “Ah!” cried Celestine, shrugging her shoulders. “Do not talk of him—I leave it to you to make him do what is right.” “And you will return to France?” “Yes, yes. If you say so?” Celestine looked at Peter in a manner known only to the Latin races. Just then a side door was thrown open, and a boy of about twelve years of age dashed into the room, followed by a French poodle.