"William Spinks," corrected Mr. Gramp, as it may be convenient to call him. "Billy is merely an endearing term to which, alas! your lips have long been strangers. But you needn't talk," said Cicero, becoming angry, and therewith a trifle vulgar; "your name is Clara Maria Spinks!" "And a very good name, too," retorted the lady. "Cut the scene short, Billy." "That is my advice also," put in Alan, who was growing weary. "I do not want to know any more about your relationship. That you are brother and sister is nothing to me." "I hope, Mr. Thorold, that you won't reveal my degraded connection in Heathton," cried Mrs. Warrender, much agitated. "It would ruin me. With great difficulty I attained a position by marrying my poor dear Julian, and I don't want to fall back into the mud where this worm writhes." She darted a vicious glance at Cicero. "Be content, Mrs. Warrender; your secret is safe with me." "Denying her own flesh and blood!" moaned Gramp, and sat down. Speech and attitude were most effective, and Mrs. Warrender, with a spark of her old theatrical humor, played back. "Yes, I deny you," she cried, rising quickly and stretching out a denunciatory hand. "You were always a brute and a disgrace to me. Look at that creature, Mr. Thorold! He is my brother. Our parents were on the stage--barnstormers they were--and played in the provinces for bite and sup. They put us on the stage, and when thy died, left a little money to Billy there. He was to bring me up. How did he fulfil his trust? By making me work for him. As an actor, even in the meanest parts, he was a failure. I am not much of an actress myself, although I was well known as Miss de Crespigny, and billed all over London. It was my figure and my looks that did it. I appeared in burlesque ten or twelve years ago, and I had wealth at my feet." "I have heard of you," said Alan, recalling his college days and certain photographs of the most beautiful burlesque actress in London. He wondered he had not recognized her long before. Mrs. Warrender, shaking with passion, went on as though she had not heard him. "Wealth was at my feet," went on the widow--"wealth and dishonor. He," she cried, and pointed the finger of scorn at the unabashed Cicero, "he lived on me! He would have me stoop to dishonor for his sake! Then I lost my voice. The creature treated me basely. I left him; I ran away to the States of America, and appeared in ballets for my looks alone. In New Orleans I met Julian Warrender--he was old, but he was madly in love with me--and I married him for a home. We came to England five years ago, and settled at Heathton. I always did my best to be a good wife, although I dare say I was extravagant. Diamonds! yes, I have diamonds, and I made Julian buy me all he could. And why?--to provide against the days of poverty which I knew would come. They have come--my husband is dead. God help me!" Her voice rose to a scream. "Murdered!" she cried.