"Yes, Don. That's the man. But please don't interrupt. I want to get the whole thing off my mind. My conscience has been worrying me so, in the last few days, that I must clear it, and take all the blame.... This is how it was--I discovered, almost at once, that Anne had inherited her father's wonderful gifts, and that he had given her a perfectly marvellous training.... He had become blind, stone blind, poor, poor Win--and teaching her had been his one pleasure and recreation. He'd done wonders for her, and probably had great hopes for her future. He never knew--Anne told me all this. With tears in her eyes, she said that she could never bring herself to tell him that there would be no possible chance for her on the stage.... When she told me that--I had a great idea. I took her up to my room, and I made her up with my own hands. Nobody was ever more skilful at that than Kate Rohan." There was pride in the deep old voice. "I made her look at herself in the glass. You could see the birthmark in the bright daylight a little, not very much. But when I drew the blinds and turned on the electric lights, there wasn't a trace--not a trace. "Then I thought it all out.... She couldn't be seen in the daytime, in a bright light, without the defect being discovered. And if it was once known, it would be talked about, and I could see that Anne would never be able to stand the kind of notoriety it would bring her. She was too terribly sensitive about it.... I was at my wits' end for quite a while, and then--suddenly--I saw a way out.... "I was determined that her wonderful gifts should not be lost to the world, and I got Arthur Quinn to come up to Fennimore Park. I made Anne act for him, after I'd made her up as she ought to look on the stage. He was crazy--mad about her, and when I saw how he felt, I told him everything, including my plan--which was that she should be two persons instead of one.... I even picked out a name for her--Mary, for my own mother, and Blake, which was part of her mother's name--Blakeslie.... So--as Mary Blake she was to astonish and delight the world; and as Anne Blake she was to pursue her daily round, without any subterfuge other than the change of name, to agree with that of her 'sister.' And, too, I suggested that she play the part, while she was about it--play Mary with spirit and pride, standing tall and straight, as she always did when she was taken out of herself--and let Anne be as she was: plainly dressed, timid, quiet, retiring; stooping a little as she walked or stood.... To me, it was an added touch to the dramatic possibilities of the situation, but Anne looked at the whole thing with distaste and it took some time to persuade her--but, at last, she yielded.