All he was now conscious of, however, was that every sign which his wife showed of pursuing the old ambitions irritated him to desperation.

Alan was dead. The bulk of what his creditors left would fall into his hands absolutely. Fate had indeed bestowed upon him more than his heart's desire.

Yet as he thought of it all, a strange, undefined horror crept through him, sending him hot and cold by turns. Was it after all blind Fate that had accomplished all this? Fate, or his own resolute will?

A great burning shame rose and rose in his heart, in spite of all his self-justifying arguments. What had he done? Nothing! Nothing but secure that, when the ruin did fall, he and not others would gather up the salvage.

Yet as Réné proceeded with the story, omitting no detail, but with unconscious dramatic power bringing out point by point of the vivid tragedy, the fact burned in upon his awakened senses that he had seen his brother going over, and had deliberately abstained from staying the progress, in order—and how far this was the case he was unable in his agitation to differentiate-to increase his own miserable advantage. And now Alan was dead. And at the moment it seemed to this man, writhing on his couch, that he would gladly have given up every square yard of property falling so tragically into his power, to see his brother again, to hear his hearty voice so full of boyish sympathy, which he had listened for so eagerly lately-nay, if he could but once more be given the chance to smooth the anxiety from the harassed face. Poor old Alan!

"And papa-they are saying such terrible things up and down. I think it would break Aunt Maud's heart if she knew. Oh, she must never know!"

"That Uncle Alan-" Réné's voice sank to a whisper, "that Uncle Alan did it on purpose!"

"Who are saying that?" demanded the man, fiercely. "Oh, I don't exactly know!" Réné blushed. "You do know!"

"Yes, papa. But I would rather not say!"

"Very well!" Simon was learning to respect this son of his, and he noted the deeply dyed countenance.

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'And remember, that whatever you hear that your Uncle Alan has or has not done, he never committed suicide!" and Simon burst into an exasperating fit of coughing.

Réné rose, thinking that he might tire his father if he stayed longer.

"Lock the door!" commanded the sick man, abruptly. The boy obeyed wonderingly.

Simon pointed to a small book on a shelf just out of his reach.

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Now sit down and read me the Order for the Burial of the Dead."

"Yes, papa!"

Réné's fingers trembled so, he could hardly find the place.

The boy's clear, well-modulated voice sounded out the words through the quiet room. He persevered bravely to the end.

"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen."

"Thank you, my boy. Good night!"

Réné stooped and kissed his father with trembling

lips. His self-control was fast leaving him. He dared not have spoken a word.

As the door closed behind him the man on the couch moaned like a caged beast.

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As in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive!' Does any one dare to know what that means?" he murmured.

CHAPTER XXI

Now Margaret, lying back in the train, had been thinking with an acuteness that made sleep or desultory reading impossible.

She had parted from her husband in a perfect storm of passion. Even Hugh Denton was for the moment nonplused. She had happened at breakfast to pick up an evening paper-to read about the fall of the Company -to appreciate the paragraph which insinuated that some in connection with the affair would be most effectively covered.

Then the storm, suppressed for so many years, broke bounds at last. Margaret forgot her fears, forgot her self-control, forgot everything, even ordinary self-preserving prudence, in her fierce torrent of anger which she poured forth against her offending husband.

In vain he tried to argue and expostulate. For once she got her way-for once the long-hidden wounds of the crushed heart bled forth freely.

Have Alan and Maud lost everything?" she demanded at last.

"If you will have it-probably!'

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"You dare!" and she grasped his arm. What have you lost? Tell me!"

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Why should I have lost anything?" he sneered.

"Then I go to Maud by the next train!" she cried. And he let her go.

Yet now, as the minutes brought her nearer to her brother-in-law she began to grow nervous. The reaction was approaching. She knew within herself that she had not the strength to fight out her life as she would like to fight it. She was utterly overwrought and frightened at the fierceness with which she had fled from her husband.

Over and over she traversed the coming scene with Alan. She would give up every farthing she personally possessed-she would work, beg, starve, anything. Nothing mattered at all. She would never, never go back to Hugh. She made up letter after letter in her mind, informing him of her decision. Were not she and Maud sisters before Hugh was ever thought of? Why, Maud was her baby-her sister, left forever under her guardianship. That Maud should come to harm through her -it was intolerable.

At Langbarrow Hall the sisters met.

Without a word Maud drew her into the morning

room.

They looked into each other's eyes, and were clasped in a long, panting, voiceless embrace.

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Sit down in the warm till your maid has unpacked," said Maud. "Oh, Margaret, it is good to have you!

"And Alan?" faltered Margaret, looking apprehensively toward the door. "Maud, tell me is he very angry with me for coming? I could not help it!"

Maud trembled; but she was still dry-eyed and passionless.

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Alan-Alan will never trouble you, Margaret. He will never reproach any one again. Oh, how can I explain?"