“That man’s my despair!” sighed Wingfield after Walsh’s stout figure had vanished through the door. “I’d give a good deal to be able to carry off the mysterious as Tom does. With most of us life is just one long explanation; Tom never explains anything--he just says ‘Um!’ and lets us guess.” Wayne smiled. He was again clean-shaven, as we knew him first, and he was lean and rugged. “I don’t think Tom can teach you anything, Dick, but what a dear old brick he is! His ways at the office would tickle you; he thinks the hands are all in mortal terror of him, but they’re not--they love him most when he roars the loudest.” Walsh took a trolley to the East End, and was soon asking for Mrs. Craighill. She sent word that she would be down in a moment, but a quarter of an hour passed before she appeared. Walsh sat grimly waiting; once or twice he drew the telegram from his pocket and scanned it impassively. He was so lost in thought that he did not hear her light step, and he stumbled awkwardly to his feet as she stood before him. She had been weeping, and the smile she gave him was not without its tears. He did not know that for an hour she had hoped he would come, or that his presence gave her a sense of mingled trust and fear. Ever since the day of the sleigh-ride thoughts of him had tantalized her; his kindness to her husband, of which she had been aware, had puzzled her--he had visited the house often for conferences with his former chief. “I didn’t come to see the Colonel this time; I want to see you alone, Mrs. Craighill.” “He went to his office after dinner; we shall not be interrupted.” “It’s an unhappy business that brings me here.” Her heart beat fast, assailed by vague premonitions. “Your mother died to-day, quite suddenly, at Burlington. You had heard of it?” “Yes--to-night, only a little while ago,” she faltered. “You probably wondered, that afternoon we drove in the park, what I knew of her. I did not tell you then; there was no use in it. I knew what troubled you, and I told you I would help you--and I did.” “Yes--yes; I remember.” He sat rigid in his chair, a man without grace of speech or person; and his next words came harshly, without any colour of feeling. “She was my wife; you are my daughter. Your name is Adelaide Walsh. Some things you probably don’t know. I kept a livery stable in Burlington. When you were five years old she ran off with a man named Pendleton. I didn’t know at first what she carried you away for--but I knew later, when she had finished with Pendleton and you had grown up. I closed out the business I had there and came here; but I kept watching you. I sent her money for your use--and she lived on it. There’s nothing for you to tell me--I know everything you’ve done--what you’ve gone through--the whole business. I might have taken you away from her, but--I’m only Tom Walsh; I wasn’t fit. But I guess she didn’t do you so much harm; I guess you’re a good woman.”