Guy Kenmore went to the light, spread the little scrap open on his hand and looked at it. The writing was in a man's hand and the few words were these: "_That the truth may be revealed and my death-bed repentance accepted of Heaven, I pray, humbly._ "_Clarence Stuart, Senior._" Suddenly a cold little hand touched his own. "I saw you," said Irene, in a low, strange voice. "What does it mean?" "A great deal, or---- nothing," he answered, in a voice as strange as her own. She read it slowly over. The fragmentary words and the proud name seemed to burn themselves in on her memory. "Who is Clarence Stuart?" she asked, wonderingly. "I intend to find out," he answered. "When I do, I shall tell you, little Irene." In his heart there was a deadly suspicion of foul play. Who had torn from old Ronald Brooke's hand the letter whose fragmentary ending he grasped within that clenched and stiffened hand? Had there been murder most foul? He went back and looked attentively at the corpse. It was true there was no sign of violence, but was that the face of one who had died from one instant's terrible heart pang, who must have died before he had realized his pain? No, the face was drawn as if in deadly pain, the open eyes stared wide with horror. "I shall say nothing yet," he said to himself, gravely. "Let them think that death came in the quiet course of nature. But if old Ronald Brooke was murdered I shall bring his murderer to justice." And on the man's handsome face, usually so gay and debonair, was registered a grim, firm purpose. Mrs. Brooke and Bertha had been led away to their rooms now. No one remained for the moment but Elaine. She came slowly to her daughter's side. "Irene, you must come with me now, she said, pleadingly, but the girl broke from her clasp and ran to throw herself on the dead man's breast. "I cannot leave him yet," she sobbed. "He was my all!" Elaine shivered, as if some one had struck her a blow. She followed her daughter, and solemnly took the dead man's hand in her feverish, throbbing clasp. "Irene, my daughter, this, my own father whom I deceived and deserted, whose loving heart I broke by my folly--he pitied and forgave me," she said, mournfully. "My sin against you was far less, for it was not premeditated. Here by papa's cold dead body I ask you, darling, to pity and forgive me. Will you refuse my prayer?" Irene lifted her head from its chill resting-place and looked at her suppliant mother with a strange, grave gaze. "We forgive every one when we are dying--do we not?" she asked, slowly. "Yes, my darling, but you are young and strong. You have many years to live perhaps. I cannot wait till your dying hour for your love and pity. I need it now," sighed poor Elaine. There was a moment's silence. Irene looked down at the dead man's face as if asking him to counsel her in this sad hour. As the wide, horror-haunted eyes met hers she recoiled in terror.