"I've tied my horse down by the road," the stranger said, sitting down by the long table, "I got the beast at the station. The distance was longer than I imagined and the roads are--to say the least--not oiled." He laughed and flecked the dust from his coat--still keeping his eyes on Joan. "Is your aunt at home?" he continued. So then, the man should be recognized--but he still eluded Joan's memory. "No, she is not. She will not be back for some time. I am sorry that I cannot recall you--I am sure I have seen you--but----" "You'd have a remarkable memory if you did recall me," there was a sneer in the laugh that followed the words; "you were very young when you saw me before. Perhaps I can help you--you are--Joan, are you not?" "Yes." Joan sat down opposite the man--her hands were clasped close. "I'm George Thornton, formerly of the Philippines, later of South Africa, more recently of New York, where I stayed long enough to learn my way here. Incidentally, I am your father." Had Joan been standing she would have fallen. As it was, she quickly overcame the dizziness that made the speaker seem to dance about and, by gripping her hands closer, she steadied herself. "I suppose you have never heard of me before?" "Oh! yes!" Joan listened to her own voice critically; "Aunt Doris told Nancy and me all about you." "All, eh?" Thornton could barely keep the surprise and relief from his voice. This simplified matters and he could talk freely. "What do you want?" The question as Joan spoke it sounded brutal. "I do not suppose you have come here, after all these years, for nothing." Thornton flushed angrily, and his resentment of old flamed into speech. "I've come to make your aunt--pay. When I saw you before--you and your supposed sister--your aunt had all the cards in her hands, but I told her then that murder would out--and by God! it has--and now it is pay day." The years had coarsened Thornton. Joan stared at the man across the table as if he had suddenly gone mad before her eyes. She was frightened; she heard distant voices--the cook speaking to Jed--she wanted to call out; meant to--but instead she asked dully: "What do you mean by--my supposed sister?" Thornton shifted his position and leaned forward over the table. "So--eh? She didn't tell you all? I see. She confined the story to--me. And--you've believed all your life--that--that the girl, Nancy, was your sister? Well--by heaven! Doris has taken a chance." "You have got to tell me what you mean!" Joan was no longer filled with personal fear--it was wider, deeper than that. "And you must not lie," she added, fiercely--anger was giving her strength. Thornton regarded her through half-closed eyes. "Lying isn't my big line," he said, roughly, "if it had seen, I might have escaped the infernal mess that I hatched by--telling the truth in the first place. Since your aunt has neglected her duty--I will tell you the truth!"