“There is no shadow of stain on John Waring’s name! What do you mean?” “Now, look here, Miss Austin, you keep quiet about all this, will you? I’ll call off those sleuths and I’ll arrange to close up and cover up the whole matter. Then, you marry me—there’s only a distant cousinship between us—and I’ll put up the biggest memorial to Waring you ever heard of.” “Omit the clause about my marrying you,” she returned, “and I may agree to your plans. I haven’t quite decided what to do—and beside, Mr. Trask, who killed my—Doctor Waring?” “Never mind who killed him. Call it suicide—it must have been anyway—” “No—I’m not sure it was—oh, I don’t know what to do.” “Time’s up,” called Fibsy through the closed door. “And, I say, Miss Austin, you take my tip, and come along and tell your story to F. Stone. It’ll be your best bet in the long run.” Perhaps it was the boy’s speech, perhaps it was the gleam of disappointed greed that Anita saw in Trask’s eyes, but she rose, with a sudden decision, and said, as she opened the door: “That’s just what I’ll do. Come with me, Mrs. Bates—or, would you rather not?” “Oh, I can’t,” said Emily Bates, “don’t ask me, Anita, dear.” “No, you stay here. I’ll come back soon.” And so Miss Mystery again walked across the snow-covered field to the Waring house, this time to remove all occasion for using her nickname. “You found her?” said Stone, as the trio came into the study, where he and Lockwood still sat. “Yes,” said Fibsy. “I just thought where would a poor, hunted kid go? And I said to myself, she’d go to the nearest and nicest lady’s house she knew of. And of course, that was Mrs. Bates’ and sure enough there she was. And—she’s going to tell all!” Fibsy was melodramatic by nature, and his gesture indicated an important revelation. “I am,” said Anita, quietly. She went straight to Lockwood’s side, and he took her hand calmly, and led her to a seat on the wide davenport, then sat beside her. Her hand still in his, she told her story. “I am of Truesdell blood,” she began, “as Mr. Trask surmised. But, also, I am of Waring blood. Doctor John Waring was my father.” No one spoke. The surprise was too great. In his wildest theories, Fleming Stone had never thought of this. Fibsy’s great astonishment was permeated with the quick conviction, “then she didn’t kill him!” Gordon Lockwood was conscious of a rapturous reassurance that he had no rival as a lover. Trask, already knowing the truth, sat gloomily realizing he was not the heir. Anita, her beautiful face sad, yet proud to acknowledge her ancestry, went on: