A ring at the door interrupted her. Sheba stepped forward and let in an Indian woman with a little boy clinging to her hand. "You Miss O'Neill?" she asked. "Yes." From the folds of her shawl she drew a letter. The girl glanced at the address, then opened and read what was written. She looked up, puzzled, first at the comely, flatfooted Indian woman and afterward at the handsome little brown-faced papoose. She turned to Gordon. "This letter says I am to ask this woman who is the father of her boy. What does it mean?" Gordon knew instantly what it meant, though he could not guess who had dealt the blow. He hesitated for an answer, and in his embarrassment she felt that which began to ring a bell of warning in her heart. The impulse to spare her pain was stronger in him than the desire that she should know the truth. "Send her away," he urged. "Don't ask any questions. She has been sent to hurt you." A fawnlike fear flashed into the startled eyes. "To hurt me?" "I am afraid so." "But--why? I have done nobody any harm." She seemed to hold even her breathing in suspense. Only a pulse beat wildly in her white throat like the heart of an imprisoned thrush. "Perhaps some of Macdonald's enemies," he suggested. And at that there came a star-flash into the soft eyes and a lifted tilt to the chin cut fine as a cameo. She turned proudly to the Indian woman. "What is it that you have to tell me about this boy's father?" Meteetse began to speak. At the first mention of Macdonald's name Sheba's eyes dilated. Her smile, her sweet, glad pleasure at Gordon's arrival, were already gone like the flame of a blown candle. Clearly her heart was a-flutter, in fear of she knew not what. When the Indian woman told how she had first crossed the path of Macdonald, the color flamed into the cheeks of the Irish girl, but as the story progressed, the blood ebbed even from her lips. With a swift movement of her fingers she flashed on the hall light. Her gaze searched the brown, shiny face of the little chap. She read there an affidavit of the truth of his mother's tale. The boy had his father's trick of squinting a slant look at anything he found interesting. It was impossible to see him and not recognize Colby Macdonald reincarnated. "What is your name?" asked Sheba suddenly. The youngster hung back shyly among the folds of the Indian woman's skirt. "Colmac," he said at last softly. "Come!" Sheba flung open the door of the living-room and ushered them in. Macdonald, pacing restlessly up and down the room during her absence, pulled up in his stride. He stood frowning at the native woman, then his eyes passed to Elliot and fastened upon him. The face of the Scotchman might have been chipped from granite. It was grim as that of a hanging judge. Gordon started to explain, then stopped with a shrug. What was the use? The man would never believe him in the world.