Life is a game
The keenest wins.
Repute or shame.
Life is a game;
We give or claim
For virtues, sins;
Life is a game
The keenest wins

Beaumont was perfectly satisfied with the result of his experiment, as he had discovered the squire's secret, and had yet succeeded in keeping him in ignorance of his having done so. With the keen intellect of a man accustomed to live by his wits, he had, during his rapid survey of the papers, seen the chances of turning the secret to his own advantage. But to do so he required the co-operation of Patience, and this he was doubtful of obtaining.

She held studiously aloof from him, and since the interview in the churchyard had given no sign that she was aware of his existence. Many men would have been discouraged by this contemptuous silence; but not so Beaumont, who never saw discourtesy in anyone of whom he wanted to make use. Hitherto Patience had been a mere cipher in his eyes; but now, since his discovery of the existence of her son, and since he had learned the jealously-guarded secret of the squire, she suddenly became an important person; for it was through her he hoped to secure his ends--ends calculated to benefit himself alone.

The only way by which he could hope to gain her ear was through her love for their son, hence his explanation on the stairs. Now, after putting away his painting utensils, he lighted a cigarette, and strolled easily along to the housekeeper's room in order to arrange matters with her. Of the result he had no fear, as he intended to appeal to her motherhood, which appeal, he well knew, would not be neglected by this woman, whose whole life was devoted to her son. Mr. Beaumont was an expert whist-player, and, moreover, admired the game very much. So, in this case, being somewhat doubtful of Patience, yet holding a strong hand, he took an illustration from his favourite game, and said:

"When in doubt, play trumps."

"It will be a charming game," he murmured, as he knocked at the door of the housekeeper's room, "she is no mean adversary, and hates me like poison--all the more credit to me if I win--as I mean to."

Patience Allerby, in her quiet, grey dress, was sitting silent and statuesque by the window, staring out at the rapidly darkening landscape. When Beaumont entered, she looked coldly at him, but neither rose to receive him nor invited him to sit down. Her visitor, however, was not troubled by any sensitive feeling, so threw himself into a comfortable chair that was near the fire, and coolly went on smoking.

"I hope you don't mind my cigarette," he said, languidly, "but I can't exist without smoking."

"You can't exist without all sorts of luxuries," replied Patience, bitterly, "you're not the man to deny yourself anything."

"I had to deny myself a good many things when we were starving in London," said Mr. Beaumont, leisurely. "By the way, I want to speak to you about London."

"And I want to speak to you about the squire," she retorted, quickly. "What were you doing following him upstairs?"

"Don't distress yourself, my good soul," said the artist, in a coolly aggravating manner. "I'll tell you that later on; meantime, we will talk of Chelsea."

"No."

"Pardon me--yes. Do you remember how we lived there, you and I, and the visions we used to indulge in? I haven't forgotten it, I assure you, and then Fanny Blake--poor Fanny! she is dead now. I see you gave the boy her surname."

"And what if I did?" she flashed out fiercely, with a deep frown on her face. "Could I give him yours--the father who had deserted him? Could I give him mine--the mother to whom his birth was a disgrace?"

"A disgrace! I thought you loved him?"

"So I do--I love him more than my life; but his birth was a disgrace, and I wish to keep the knowledge from him, please God."

"Was the boy you call Reginald Blake ever christened?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I could not tell the truth about his birth, and I refused to tell a lie. He was neither christened, nor was his birth registered."

"Then he has no right to the name he bears."

"I know that. Whose fault is it, Basil Beaumont--yours or mine? Why didn't you make an honest woman of me?"

"Because I did not choose to," he replied, coolly; "by the way, has our son been confirmed?"

"No."

"Oh," he said, sneering, "I'm sorry he's not got some religious flavour about him. I wonder, Patience, when you called him Blake, you did not pass him off as Fanny's son."

She arose from her seat in a fury.

"Do you think I was going to place my sin on Fanny's shoulders?"

"I don't see why not--Fanny and yourself both came up to London at the same time--the child was born six months after you arrived there--why not call it Fanny's child?"

"There was no reason."

"Not then; but there is now, and a very excellent reason--ten thousand a year."

"What do you mean?"

"Simply this, that Reginald Blake, from this time forward, is the son of Fanny Blake and Randal Garsworth."

Patience looked at him in surprise, and involuntarily drew back a step, thinking him mad. Beaumont saw this, and laughed mockingly.

"Don't be afraid--there's method in my madness."

"There's some villainy in it," she said, with a hard smile, sitting down near him; "tell me what you mean, Basil Beaumont, if you intend touching a hair of my son's head I'll punish you."

"I intend to give him ten thousand a year, if you won't be a fool."

She smiled coldly, and folded her hands upon her lap.

"I'm no fool, but I know you--go on, Ananias."

Beaumont flung the burnt-out cigarette into the fire with an irritable gesture, and turned his face towards the frigid woman seated before him.

"Listen to what I've got to say," he said slowly, "and then you can do as you please--if you assist me it means money and happiness for our son; if you don't, I'll tell him everything, and then leave the village for ever."

Patience shivered slightly under the steely glitter of his eyes, and then resumed her cold impass............