“But as I say,” resumed Wrenn, “we got along all right, and did no great harm for all those years. Then we struck Mortimer. He was a bad one—just a plain bad one, from the very first.” “And I always thought you were so fond of him!” ejaculated the detective. “But I was, sir,” said the old man at once. “I was very fond of him, indeed! He was a—a very lovable person, sir, when he cared to be.” Barrison, again rendered speechless, simply stared at him for a moment or two. “Go on!” he managed to articulate, after a bit. “Well, sir, it was this way. Mortimer’s blood was younger than ours, and he was more venturesome, more energetic, more daring.” “Like your daughter.” “Yes, sir,” said the ex-gambler, rather sadly. “Like her. There was a time when I was afraid that she was getting too fond of him—he had such a way with women! Wherever he went there was trouble, as you might say. He helped the show—put new life into it, and he could ride—oh, well, no one ever rode better than he did. And you know how handsome he was?” Strangely enough, the old man’s voice choked a bit just there. “I don’t know why I always felt just the way I did about him,” he went on quietly. “He was often very rough and careless in his ways, but—but I was as fond of him as if he’d been my own son—and that, sir, is the gospel truth. “Mortimer had a scheme to branch out bigger, and get a sort of organized company together, with capital, and a circus arena somewhere with the right sort of scenery and music, and that sort of thing. Mr. Dukane had seen our show once, and had taken an interest in it—at least, had taken an interest in the lad—and Mortimer wrote to him for a loan to back the new plan.” “Wrote Dukane—for a loan?” repeated Jim, in admiration. “Yes, he did. I felt just as surprised as you, sir, when he told me what he had done. And—to this day, I’m not sure whether it was just plain, pure nerve on his part, or whether he—he—had in mind what the result might be.” “Result?” “Yes.” For the first time the old scapegrace’s utterance was slow and troubled—hardly audible. He would not meet Barrison’s eyes. What he said now seemed to be dragged up from the depths of his sinful and unwilling soul. “You know—you must know, sir,” he said, in those new and halting accents, “since you know so much—about the deal with Dukane?” “I know something,” said Jim, truthfully, but very cautiously—his heart was beating hard. “I know that there was a deal at all events.” “It—it doesn’t sound very well—put into words, does it, sir?” Poor old Wrenn’s tone was tired and appealing. “But there! I said I was going to make a clean breast of it, and I might as well. Dukane and Mortimer fixed it up between themselves——” “Dukane and Mortimer only?” interrupted Barrison, with a sudden intuition. Wrenn’s poor, weak, tragic eyes met his piteously, shifted, and fell.