"I have your promise not to claim him," she panted with a look of despair in her eyes, "your sacred promise." The artist laughed in a gibing manner. "Bah! That for my promise," he said, snapping his fingers in the air. "I'm not going to lose the chance of making money out of him for any sentimental rubbish." "You will tell him you are his father?" "I will." "And that you deserted us both in London?" Beaumont winced at the sting of her words. "I'll tell him what I think fit," he said angrily, "and make him do what I please. I am his father." "Will you, indeed?" she observed jeeringly, though her face worked in convulsive rage. "You are the father who deserted him when a child and now want to make money out him; you would disgrace him in his own eyes by telling him the real story of his birth. I tell you no, Basil Beaumont, you'll do no such thing." "Who will stop me?" "I will." "A very laudable intention, but how do you propose to carry it out?" "I will tell him the whole story of my sin," she said deliberately. "How I loved you and was betrayed, how you left both him and me to starve in the streets of London and only claim him as a son to make money out of his one gift. I'll tell him all this, and then we'll see if he respects and obeys you." "He is my son." "Over whom you have no authority; he is of age and you cannot make him your slave. As to the rest, I'll take care that everyone in the village knows the story and you'll be drummed out of the place as the scoundrel you are." Clever as he was, Beaumont saw Patience held the trump card, so suddenly forsook his dictatorial manner and spoke blandly. "Very well, I'll say nothing to him at all just now." "You'll never say anything to him," she said sternly. "Stay in this village if you like, but do not dare to reveal my secret to Reginald Blake--if you do it will be the worse for you; I'm not going to have him ruined for life by your treachery." "But, Patience--my own son." "Bah!" she snarled, turning on him viciously, "don't talk like that to me--a scoundrel you were and a scoundrel you are--don't touch me, don't come near me, but breathe one word of my secret and as sure as there's a God above us I'll do what I say." Beaumont made a step forward as if to seize her, but with a gesture of loathing she drew her dress around her and fled away into the darkness leaving him standing alone by the river. He remained silent for a few moments then his brow cleared and he resumed his nonchalant manner, though his face still remained pale and haggard. "My son Reginald," he said, lightly rolling a cigarette, "I had no idea of such luck. Ah, you she cat, I'll cut your claws yet; I'll make money out of the voice yet, in spite of your threats my fine madame." Suddenly a thought struck him as he lighted his cigarette and he laughed softly.