"I have told you the truth, because I am as certain as I am that I stand here now that you would have found it all out some day,--some day soon, perhaps. In the first place your father did not mention her in his will. That alone is enough to cause you to wonder. You are not the only one who is puzzled by his failure to provide for her as well as for you. Before long you would have begun to doubt, then to speculate, and finally you would have made it your business to find out why she was ignored. In time you could have unearthed the truth. The truth will always out, as the saying goes. I preferred to tell it to you at once. You understand I cannot exact any promises from you. You will do as you see fit in the matter. There is one thing that you must realize, however. Viola has not robbed you of anything--not even a father's love. She does not profit by his death. He did not leave her a farthing, not even a spadeful of land. I am entitled to my share by law. The law would have given it to me if he had left no will. I am safe. That is clear to you, of course. I earned my share,--I worked as hard as he did to build up a fortune. When I die my lands and my money will go to my daughter. You need not hope to have any part of them. I do not ask you to keep silent on my account. I only ask you to spare her. If I have sinned,--and in the sight of man, I suppose I have,--I alone should be punished. But she has not sinned. I have thought it all out carefully. I have lain awake till all hours of the night, debating what was the best thing to do. To tell you or not to tell you, that was the question I had to settle. This morning I decided and this is the result. You know everything. There is no need for you to speculate. There is nothing for you to unravel. You know who Viola is, you know why she was left out of your father's will. The point is this, when all is said,--she must never know. She must always,--do you hear me?--she must always look upon you as her brother. She must never know the truth about me. I put her happiness, her pride, her faith, in your hands, Kenneth Gwynne." He had listened with rigid attention, marvelling at the calm, dispassionate, unflinching manner in which she stated her case and Viola's,--indeed, she had stated his own case for him. Apparently she had not even speculated on the outcome of her revelations; she was sure of her ground before she took the first step. "There is no other course open to me," he said, taking up his hat. He was very pale. "There is nothing more to say,--now or hereafter. We have had, I trust, our last conversation. I hate you. I could wish you all the unhappiness that life can give, but I am not such a beast as to tell your daughter what kind of a woman you are. So there's the end. Good-day, Rachel Carter." He turned away, his hand was on the door-latch, before she spoke again.