"Because I intend to save my boy from a great folly. I am informed that he is infatuated with you, and Inspector Burke tells me why--he tells me--why--he tells me----" He paused, unable for a moment to continue from an excess of emotion. But his gray eyes burned fiercely in accusation against her.

Inspector Burke himself filled the void in the halting sentence.

"I told you she had been an ex-convict."

"Yes," Gilder said, after he had regained his self-control. He stared at her pleadingly. "Tell me," he said with a certain dignity, "is this true?"

Here, then, was the moment for which she had longed through weary days, through weary years. Here was the man whom she hated, suppliant before her to know the truth. Her heart quickened. Truly, vengeance is sweet to one who has suffered unjustly.

"Is this true?" the man repeated, with something of horror in his voice.

"It is," Mary said quietly.

For a little, there was silence in the room. Once, Inspector Burke started to speak, but the magnate made an imperative gesture, and the officer held his peace. Always, Mary rested motionless. Within her, a fierce joy surged. Here was the time of her victory. Opposite her was the man who had caused her anguish, the man whose unjust action had ruined her life. Now, he was her humble pet.i.tioner, but this servility could be of no avail to save him from shame. He must drink of the dregs of humiliation--and then again. No price were too great to pay for a wrong such as that which he had put upon her.

At last, Gilder was restored in a measure to his self-possession. He spoke with the sureness of a man of wealth, confident that money will salve any wound.

"How much?" he asked, baldly.

Mary smiled an inscrutable smile.

"Oh, I don't need money," she said, carelessly. "Inspector Burke will tell you how easy it is for me to get it."

Gilder looked at her with a newly dawning respect; then his shrewdness suggested a retort.

"Do you want my son to learn what you are?" he said.

Mary laughed. There was something dreadful in that burst of spurious amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Why not?" she answered. "I'm ready to tell him myself."

Then Gilder showed the true heart of him, in which love for his boy was before all else. He found himself wholly at a loss before the woman's unexpected reply.

"But I don't want him to know," he stammered. "Why, I've spared the boy all his life. If he really loves you--it will----"

At that moment, the son himself entered hurriedly from the hallway.

In his eagerness, he saw no one save the woman whom he loved. At his entrance, Mary rose and moved backward a step involuntarily, in sheer surprise over his coming, even though she had known he must come--perhaps from some other emotion, deeper, hidden as yet even from herself.

The young man, with his wholesome face alight with tenderness, went swiftly to her, while the other three men stood silent, motionless, abashed by the event. And d.i.c.k took Mary's hand in a warm clasp, pressed it tenderly.

"I didn't see father," he said happily, "but I left him a note on his desk at the office."

Then, somehow, the surcharged atmosphere penetrated his consciousness, and he looked around, to see his father standing grimly opposite him.

But there was no change in his expression beyond a more radiant smile.

"h.e.l.lo, Dad!" he cried, joyously. "Then you got my note?"

The voice of the older man came with a sinister force and saturnine.

"No, d.i.c.k, I haven't had any note."

"Then, why?" The young man broke off suddenly. He was become aware that here was something malignant, with a meaning beyond his present understanding, for he saw the Inspector and Demarest, and he knew the two of them for what they were officially.

"What are they doing here?" he demanded suspiciously, staring at the two.

"Oh, never mind them," Mary said. There was a malevolent gleam in her violet eyes. This was the recompense of which she had dreamed through soul-tearing ages. "Just tell your father your news, d.i.c.k."

The young man had no comprehension of the fact that he was only a p.a.w.n in the game. He spoke with simple pride.

"Dad, we're married. Mary and I were married this morning."

Always, Mary stared with her eyes steadfast on the father. There was triumph in her gaze. This was the vengeance for which she had longed, for which she had plotted, the vengeance she had at last achieved. Here was her fruition, the period of her supremacy.

Gilder himself seemed dazed by the brief sentence.

"Say that again," he commanded.

Mary rejoiced to make the knowledge sure.

"I married your son this morning," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I married him. Do you quite understand, Mr. Gilder? I married him."

In that insistence lay her ultimate compensation for untold misery. The father stood there wordless, unable to find speech against this calamity that had befallen him.

It was Burke who offered a diversion, a crude interruption after his own fashion.

"It's a frame-up," he roared. He glared at the young man. "Tell your father it ain't true. Why, do you know what she is? She's done time." He paused for an instant, then spoke in a voice that was brutally menacing.

"And, by G.o.d, she'll do it again!"

The young man turned toward his bride. There was disbelief, hope, despair, in his face, which had grown older by years with the pa.s.sing of the seconds.

"It's a lie, Mary," he said. "Say it's a lie!" He seized her hand pa.s.sionately.

There was no quiver in her voice as she answered. She drew her hand from his clasp, and spoke evenly.

"It's the truth."

"It's the truth!" the young man repeated, incredulously.

"It is the truth," Mary said, firmly. "I have served three years in prison."

There was a silence of a minute that was like years. It was the father who broke it, and now his voice was become tremulous.

"I wanted to save you, d.i.c.k. That's why I came."

The son interrupted him violently.

"There's a mistake--there must be."

It was Demarest who gave an official touch to the tragedy of the moment.