"I admitted, too, that I kept alive the memory of a man who had played an evil part in my life; that I believed I cared for him still, more than for my husband."

"Ida, for G.o.d's sake, you do not mean"--

"Yes, I meant you then. But when he went away, when he proved himself so n.o.ble, I changed. I learned to hate the memory of the other man. But he came back too soon. I said things madly--things I did not mean. He went again. And then afterward I knew that I loved him."

"I am glad of that, upon my soul!" said Telford, letting go a long breath.

She smiled strangely and with a kind of hardness. "A few days ago I had determined to find him if I could, and to that end I intended to ask a man who had proved himself a friend, to learn, if possible, where he was in America. I came here to see him and my daughter."

"Who is the man?"

"Mr. George Hagar."

A strange light shot from Telford's eyes. "Hagar is a fortunate man," he said. Then dreamily: "You have a daughter. I wish to G.o.d that--that ours had lived."

"You did not seem to care when I wrote and told you that she was dead."

"I do not think that I cared then. Besides"--

"Besides you loved that other woman, and my child was nothing to you," she said with low scorn. "I have seen her in London. I am glad--glad that she hates you. I know she does," she added. "She would never forgive you. She was too good for you, and you ruined her life."

He was very quiet and spoke in a clear, meditative voice. "You are right.

I think she hates me. But you are wrong, too, for she has forgiven me."

"You have seen her?" She eyed him sharply.

"Yes, to-day." His look wandered to a table whereon was a photograph of her daughter. He glanced at it keenly. A look of singular excitement sprang to his eyes. "That is your daughter?"

She inclined her head.

"How old is she?" He picked up the photograph and held it, scrutinizing it.

"She is seventeen," was the reply in a cold voice.

He turned a worn face from the picture to the woman. "She is my child.

You lied to me."

"It made no difference to you then. Why should it make any difference now?

Why should you take it so tragically?"

"I do not know, but now"--His head moved, his lips trembled.

"But now she is the daughter of John Gladney's wife. She is loved and cared for by people who are better, infinitely better, than her father and mother were or could be. She believes her father is dead. And he is dead!"

"My child! My child!" he whispered brokenly over the photograph. "You will tell her that her father is not dead. You"--

She interrupted. "Where is that philosophy which you preached to me, Mark Telford, when you said you were going to marry another woman and told me that we must part? Your child has no father. You shall not tell her. You will go away and never speak to her. Think of the situation. Spare her, if you do not spare me or your friend John Gladney."

He sat down in a chair, his clinched hands resting on his knees. He did not speak. She could see his shoulder shaking a little, and presently a tear dropped on his cheek.

But she did not stir. She was thinking of her child. "Had you not better go?" she said at last. "My daughter may come at any moment."

He rose and stood before her. "I had it all, and I have lost it all," he said. "Good-bye." He did not offer his hand.

"Good-bye. Where are you going?"

"Far enough away to forget," he replied in a shaking voice. He picked up the photograph, moved his hand over it softly as though he were caressing the girl herself, lifted it to his lips, put it down, and then silently left the room, not looking back.

He went to his rooms and sat writing for a long time steadily. He did not seem excited or nervous. Once or twice he got up and walked back and forth, his eyes bent on the floor. He was making calculations regarding the company he had floated in London and certain other matters. When he had finished writing, three letters lay sealed and stamped upon the table. One was addressed to John Gladney, one to the Hudson Bay company and one to a solicitor in London. There was another unsealed. This he put in his pocket. He took the other letters up, went downstairs and posted them. Then he asked the hall porter to order a horse for riding--the best mount in the stables--to be ready at the door in an hour. He again went to his room, put on a riding suit, came down and walked out across the esplanade and into the street where Hagar's rooms were. They were lighted.

He went to the hall door, opened it quietly and entered the hall. He tapped at the door of Hagar's sitting room. As he did so a servant came out, and, in reply to a question, said that Mr. Hagar had gone to the Tempe hotel and would be back directly. He went in and sat down. The curtains were drawn back between the two rooms. He saw the easels, with their backs to the archway. He rose, went in and looked at the sketches in the dim light.

He started, flushed, and his lips drew back over his teeth with an animallike fierceness, but immediately he was composed again. He got two candles, brought them and set them on a stand between the easels. Then he sat down and studied the paintings attentively. He laughed once with a dry recklessness. "This tells her story admirably. He is equal to his subject.

To be hung in the academy. Well, well!"

He heard the outer door open, then immediately Hagar entered the room and came forward to where he sat. The artist was astonished, and for the instant embarra.s.sed. Telford rose. "I took the liberty of waiting for you, and, seeing the pictures, was interested."

Hagar bowed coldly. He waved his hand toward the pictures. "I hope you find them truthful."

"I find them, as I said, interesting. They will make a sensation. And is there anything more necessary? You are a lucky man, and you have the ability to take advantage of it. Yes, I greatly admire your ability. I can do that, at least, though we are enemies, I suppose."

His words were utterly without offense. A melancholy smile played on his lips. Again Hagar bowed, but did not speak.

Telford went on. "We are enemies, and yet I have done you no harm. You have injured me, have insulted me, and yet I do not resent it, which is strange, as my friends in a wilder country would tell you."

Hagar was impressed, affected. "How have I injured you? By painting these?"

"The injury is this: I loved a woman and wronged her, but not beyond reparation. Years pa.s.sed. I saw her and loved her still. She might still have loved me, but another man came in. It was you. That was one injury.

Then"--He took up a candle and held it to the sketch of the discovery.

"This is perfect in its art and chivalry. It glorifies the girl. That is right." He held the candle above the second sketch. "This," he said, "is admirable as art and fiction. But it is fiction. I have no hope that you will change it. I think you would make a mistake to do so. You could not have the situation, if the truth were painted. Your audience will not have the villain as the injured man."

"Were you the injured man?"

Telford put the candle in Hagar's hand. Then he quickly took off his coat, waistcoat and collar and threw back his shirt from his neck behind.

"The bullet wound I received on that occasion was in the back," he said.

"The other man tried to play the a.s.sa.s.sin. Here is the scar. He posed as the avenger, the hero, and the gentleman. I was called the coward and the vagabond! He married the girl."

He started to put on his waistcoat again. Hagar caught his arm and held it. The clasp was emotional and friendly. "Will you stand so for a moment?" he said. "Just so, that I may"--

"That you may paint in the truth? No. You are talking as the man. As an artist you were wise to stick to your first conception. It had the heat of inspiration. But I think you can paint me better than you have done, in these sketches. Come, I will give you a sitting. Get your brushes. No, no, I'll sit for nothing else than for these scenes as you have painted them.

Don't miss your chance for fame."

Without a word Hagar went to work and sketched into the second sketch Telford's face as it now was in the candlelight--worn, strong, and with those watchful eyes sunk deep under the powerful brows. The artist in him became greater than the man. He painted in a cruel, sinister expression also. At last he paused. His hand trembled. "I can paint no more," he said.

Telford looked at the sketch with a cold smile. "Yes, that's right," he said. "You've painted in a good bit of the devil too. You owe me something for this. I have helped you to a picture and have given you a sitting.

There is no reason why you should paint the truth to the world. But I ask you this: When you know that her husband is dead and she becomes your wife, tell her the truth about that, will you? How the scoundrel tried to kill me--from behind. I'd like to be cleared of cowardice some time. You can afford to do it. She loves you. You will have everything, I nothing--nothing at all."

There was a note so thrilling, a golden timbre to the voice, an indescribable melancholy so affecting that Hagar grasped the other's hand and said, "So help me G.o.d, I will!"