Cleland, bored to the verge of irritation, told him what he had learned. There was a silence during which Grismer came to the conclusion that he had better tell Cleland another fact which necessary legal investigation of the child’s antecedents might more bluntly reveal. Yes, certainly Grismer felt that he ought to place himself on record at once and explain this embarrassing fact in his own way before others cruelly misinterpreted it to Cleland. For John Cleland’s position in New York among men of wealth, of affairs, of influence, and of culture made this sudden and unfortunate whim of his for Stephanie Quest a matter of awkward importance to Chiltern Grismer, who had not cared to figure in the case at all. Grismer’s large, dry hand continued to massage his jaw. Now and then the bony fingers wandered caressingly toward the white side-whiskers, but always returned to screen the thin lips with a gentle, incessant massage. "Cleland," he began in a solemn voice, "have you ever heard that this child is—ah—is a very distant connection of my family?—m-m-m’yes—my immediate family. Have you ever heard any ill-natured gossip of this nature?" Cleland, too astonished to reply, merely gazed at him. And Grismer wrongly concluded that he had heard about it, somewhere or other. "M-m-m’yes—a connection—very distant, of course. In the event that you have heard of this unfortunate affair from sources perhaps unfriendly to myself and family—m-m-m’yes, unfriendly—possibly it were judicious to explain the matter to you—in justice to myself." "I never heard of it," said Cleland, "—never dreamed of such a connection." But to Grismer all men were liars. "Oh, I did not know. I thought you might have heard malicious rumours. But it is just as well that you should be correctly informed.... Do you recollect ever reading anything concerning my—ah—late sister?" "Do you mean something that happened many, many years ago?" "That is what I refer to. Did you read of it in the newspapers?" "Yes," said Cleland. "I read that she ran away with a married man." "Doubtless," continued Grismer with a sigh, "you recollect the dreadful disgrace she brought upon my family? The cruel scandal exploited by a pitiless and malicious press?" Cleland said nothing. "Let me tell you the actual facts," continued Grismer gently. "The unfortunate woman became infatuated with a common Pullman conductor—an Irishman named Conway—a very ordinary man who already was married. "His religion forbade divorce; my wretched sister ran away with him. We have always striven to bear the disgrace with resignation—m-m-m’yes, with patience and resignation. That is the story." Cleland, visibly embarrassed, sat twisting the handle of his walking-stick, looking persistently away from Grismer. The latter sighed heavily. "And so," he murmured, "our door was forever closed to her and hers. She became as one ignobly dead to us—as a soul damned for all eternity." "Oh, come, Grismer——"