Peter V. Wilkinson in the Den below was having a bad quarter of an hour with his daughter Leslie. For, truth to tell, there was no person in the universe whose judgment he dreaded more than the judgment of this girl who sat before him: it was his one passion to appear well in her eyes. He had listened, with keen interest, to what she had to say, invariably seeking her glance, at times leaning forward with unusual intentness in order not to lose a single word. Time and time again her words, unintentionally it is true, stung him to the quick. And yet, he had not even gulped down his emotion. He had faced her, quiet, calculating, with a countenance at times interested, at times amused. Not once had he interrupted her; not once apologised. At the start he had wondered just what he should say when she had finished, had thought of denials, of indignation, of calling on the absent accuser for his proofs; but as her tale unfolded, he merely continued to chew the black, unlighted cigar that he held in his mouth. "Have you told me all?" he asked, glancing up at the high window with its leaded panes. The girl, shamefaced, downcast, because of her doubts of her father, flushed and nodded a "yes." Wilkinson smiled, and leaning across the table, looked her full in the eyes. "Girlie," he told her, suavely, "you know I'm glad you told me this. I want you to be just as frank in telling me everything else that bothers you--especially about myself. I'm glad you told me this," he repeated, "because, because it's true." The girl jumped up from her seat, and exclaimed incredulously: "True! Father, it can't be true!" He waved her back again to her chair, took a fresh cigar, lighted it, and then said squarely: "It's the Gospel truth. With just one exception--an immaterial correction that I want to make--what you have said is fact, only you've got the wrong sow by the ear." "The what!" stammered the girl. Wilkinson waved a deprecating hand. "I should have said that your story is all right, but it's told about the wrong man," he explained. Leslie's eyes sparkled. "Then you mean to say----" "I mean to say," interrupted her father grimly, "that the man who concocted that very clever scheme was not myself, but quite another person." "You don't mean Mr. Flomerfelt?" she put in quickly. Wilkinson rose, his eyes blazing with righteous indignation. "Who understands the methods of a thief better than a thief! Who can tell you how to rob a bank so well as the thug who robbed it! Leslie, the man who tried that scheme," he went on with great emphasis, "and who, trying it, dragged us all to ruin, is the man who told you his story in this room to-day. It is Giles Ilingsworth of the Tri-State Trust Company." Leslie fell back before him in astonishment. "I--I can't believe it," was all she could say. Wilkinson laughed gently, generously.