Father!--art thou my father?--pause, good sir,
Ere thou profanest thus that holy name.
A father should protect and guide his child
Through the harsh tumult of this noisy life,
But thou hast stood apart these many years
And left me to the mercy of the world,
With all its snares and madd'ning influence,
Yet now thou say'st "I am thy father"--nay,
No name is that for such a one as thou.

Looking at that quiet room illuminated by the mellow light of the lamp, no one could have imagined the scene of terror and despair which had lately taken place, yet when Reginald entered, his face wore a somewhat puzzled expression.

"How do you do, Beaumont?" he said as the artist arose with a frank smile and took his hand. "I thought I heard a scream."

"Did you?" replied Beaumont, assisting his visitor to remove his great coat. "Then I'm afraid I must have been asleep, as I heard nothing, not even your knock; the opening of the door aroused me."

"I didn't knock at all," said Reginald, sitting down by the fire and drawing his chair closer to the burning coals. "I should have done so, but I forgot and walked straight in--you don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all, my boy, you are perfectly welcome," answered the artist heartily. "Will you smoke?"

"Thank you, I've got my pipe."

He lighted his pipe and lay back in the chair watching the fire, while Beaumont, bending forward with his face in the shadow puffed at his cigarette, watching Reginald, and crouching on the dark staircase with her eye to the keyhole, a silent woman watched both. It was a curious situation and not without a touch of grim comedy, though, as a matter of fact, the play which the trio were about to act had more in it of the tragic than the comic element.

Reginald, looking sad and weary, watched the fire for some moments, till Beaumont, feeling the silence oppressive, broke it with a laugh.

"How fearfully dull you are, Blake," he said gaily, "is anything wrong?"

Blake withdrew his sad eyes from the fire and looked at the speaker with a singular smile.

"Not what many people would call wrong," he said at length. "I have a large income, I am young, and I marry the girl I love next week."

"Well, as you can't call any of those blessings wrong, my friend, you ought to be perfectly happy."

"No doubt--but perfect happiness is given to no mortal."

"You are very young to moralize," said Beaumont with a faint sneer.

"Yes, it appears absurd, doesn't it, but I can't help it; ever since I discovered the real story of my birth a shadow seems to have fallen on my life."

"And why--who cares for the bar sinister now-a-days?"

"Not many people I suppose, but I do--I daresay I have been brought up in an old-fashioned manner, but I feel the loss of my good name keenly--wealth can gild shame, not hide it."

"Rubbish! you are morbidly sensitive on the subject."

"No doubt I am--as I said before it's the fault of my bringing up--but come," he continued in a livelier tone, "I did not call to inflict my dismal mood upon you, let us talk of other things."

"Such as your marriage?"

"Certainly--marriage is a pleasant subject," said the young man with a quiet smile. "As I told you, I marry Miss Challoner next week and then we go abroad for a year or two."

"And what about your property in the meantime?" asked Beaumont.

"Oh, I'll leave it to my solicitors to attend to."

"Why not appoint me your agent?"

Blake coloured a little at this direct request and smiled in an embarrassed manner.

"Well, I hardly see how I can do that," he said frankly, "I've only known you about three months, and besides, I have perfect confidence in my solicitors to manage the property, so, with all due respect to you, Beaumont, I must decline to appoint you my agent."

He spoke with some haughtiness, as he was irritated at the cool way in which Beaumont spoke, but that gentleman seemed in nowise offended and smiled blandly as he answered:

"If then, you will not help me in that way, will you give me some money--say five hundred pounds?"

"Certainly not!" retorted Blake hotly, pushing back his chair, "why should I do such a thing? As I said before, I have only known you three months--you were kind enough to introduce me to some friends of yours in Town, beyond this our friendship does not extend--I have yet to learn that gentlemen go about requesting sums of money from comparative strangers."

"You have yet to learn a good many things," said Beaumont coolly, irritated by the independent tone of the young man, "and one is that you must give me the money I ask."

Blake jumped to his feet in amazement at the peremptory tone of the artist and looked at him indignantly.

"Must!" he repeated angrily, "I don't understand the word--what right have you to speak to me in such a manner?--if you think you've got a fool to deal with you are very much mistaken--I decline to lend or give you a sixpence, and furthermore I also decline your acquaintance from this moment."

He snatched up his overcoat and put it on, but Beaumont, still cool and unruffled, sat smiling in his chair.

"Wait a moment," he said slowly, "you had better understand the situation before you leave this room."

Reginald Blake, who had turned his back on the artist, swung round with a dangerous expression in his dark eyes.

"I understand the situation perfectly, sir; you thought I was a young fool, who, having come into money, was simple enough to play the part of pigeon to your hawk."

Beaumont arose slowly from his chair at this insulting speech, and frowned ominously, while the woman hidden behind the door watched the pair in a cat-like manner, ready to intervene if she saw cause.

"You had better take care, my boy," said Beaumont deliberately. "I am your friend now, beware lest you make me your enemy."

"Do you think I care two straws for either your friendship or enmity?" replied Blake with supreme contempt, looking the artist up and down. "If so, you are mistaken--what can you do to harm me I should like to know?"

"Then you shall know--I can dispossess you of your wealth and leave you a pauper."

"Hardly--seeing I now know your true character and touch neither dice-box nor cards."

"It will require neither dice-box nor cards," replied Beaumont, wincing at this home thrust, "I can dispense with those aids--and I can reduce you to your former position of a pauper and stop your marriage."

"Indeed! Then do so."

Beaumont was stung to sudden fury by the young man's coolness, and lost his temper.

"You defy me!" he hissed, advancing towards Blake. "You dare to defy me, you pauper--you outcast--you bastard!"

"Liar!"

In another moment Reginald had his hand upon Beaumont's throat, his face convulsed with rage, when suddenly Patience sprang forth from her hiding-pl............