"How now! Want your money? Seems to me you have earned it with unexpected ease." "Not such great ease," I replied, as he carefully closed the door and locked it "I know that I feel as tired as I ever did in my life. The child is in New York under the guardianship of a woman who is really fond of her. You can dismiss all care concerning her." "I see--and who is the woman? Name her." "You do not trust me, I see." "I trust no one in business matters." "This is not a business matter--yet." "What do you mean?" "I have not asked for money. I am not going to till I can perfectly satisfy you that all deception is at an end so far as Mr. Ocumpaugh at least is concerned." "Oh, you would play fair, I see." I was too interested in noting how each of his hands involuntarily closed on itself, in his relief at not being called upon to part with some of his hoardings, to answer with aught but a nod. "You have your reasons for keeping close, of course," he growled as he led the way toward the basement stairs. "You're not out of the woods, is that it? Or has the great lady bargained with you?--Um? Um?" He threw the latter ejaculations back over his shoulder as he descended to the office. They displeased me, and I made no attempt to reply. In fact, I had no reply ready. Had I bargained with Mrs. Ocumpaugh? Hardly. Yet-- "She is handsome enough," the old man broke in sharply, cutting in two my self-communings. "You're a fellow of some stamina, if you have got at her secret without making her a promise. So the child is well! That's good! There's one long black mark eliminated from my account. But I have not closed the book, and I am not going to, till my conscience has nothing more to regret. It is not enough that the child is handed over to a different life; the fortunes that have been bequeathed her must be given to him who would have inherited them had this child not been taken for a veritable Ocumpaugh." "That raises a nice point," I said. "But one that will drag all false things to light." "Your action in the matter along with the rest," I suggested. "True! but do you think I shall stop because of that?" He did not look as if he would stop because of anything. "Do you not think Mrs. Ocumpaugh worthy some pity? Her future is a ghastly one, whichever way you look at it." "She sinned," was his uncompromising reply. "The wages of sin is death." "But such death!" I protested; "death of the heart, which is the worst death of all." He shrugged his shoulders, leading the way into the office.