Sir George Dashwood sat in the Gothic library at Dashwood Hall bewailing his hard fate in a manner which would have been called peevish in a less distinguished man. He wanted to know when he was going to get back the full possession of his house again; he desired to be informed why Horace Mayfield had not been to see him. He did not appear to be listening to what Mary had to say. Also he was full of the fact that the more or less mysterious Vincent Dashwood had made a dastardly attempt to reduce the old house to ashes.

"You don't seem to understand," Mary said with some impatience. She was standing in the window of the library with the sunshine full on her face. Through the great mullion, with its crested devices, she could see the deer in the park beyond. "You do not seem to comprehend that this is a blessing in disguise. So far as I can see, the house is not a bit the worse for what might have been a terrible disaster. I am bound to confess that I don't like Mr. Dashwood, but at the same time I am quite sure that he had nothing to do with the fire--the fire which prevented anybody from knowing of the disgrace that had fallen upon us."

"No thanks to that young man," Sir George grumbled. "I tell you he was responsible for the fire. His matchbox was found there. Walters saw him by the house. Why Lady Dashwood doesn't get rid of the fellow passes my comprehension."

"But I have just been trying to explain to you, only you won't listen," Mary responded with some show of impatience. "There are the most powerful reasons why Mr. Vincent Dashwood does not desire the destruction of the house. Mr. Darnley told me all about it last night. Vincent Dashwood claims to be the son of Ralph Dashwood."

Sir George started as if something had stung him. He had been so wrapped up in his own selfishness up to now that he had no ears for anything else. Mary's statement almost overpowered him. Many things suddenly became plain to the baronet's understanding.

He rose to his feet and paced up and down the room in terrible agitation.

"Is this really a fact?" he demanded. "I cannot believe it, and yet, and yet, I have met that fellow a good many times, and the oftener I see him, the more does he impress me unfavourably. I see now that there must have been some powerful reason why Lady Dashwood should tolerate the man. But why did she not tell us at once, why did she go on feeding him with money? for I can now quite see why she was not in a position to do me a favour the other night. If what you say is correct, Mary, then we are little better than beggars. Still, the reason for all this mystery----"

"Is not so strange when one comes to understand, father. It appears that Ralph Dashwood married an American lady somewhere in the wildest part of California. There has been a great difficulty in finding the marriage certificate. Lady Dashwood is quite convinced that the man we are speaking of is her grandson."

Sir George broke out into feeble whinings, he grew almost tearful. And as he became weak and sentimental, so did Mary grow harder. If this crowning blow had to fall, then nobody should hear a word of weakness from her. For her part she could have fought this man, even if it had left her penniless before the world. She clenched her teeth upon her lip to keep down the rising tide of bitter reproaches. Then she turned to see that Vincent Dashwood, together with Inspector Drake, had entered the room. The former looked heated and indignant, for he had been giving a piece of his mind to the policeman.

"I am glad to find you here, Sir George," he shouted. "The police are making all kinds of accusations against me. They say, forsooth, that I have tried to burn the house down, and all because a matchbox of mine was found in the ashes. I suppose I am not the first man in the world who has lost a matchbox. And I've been telling Drake here that I have every reason that the house should not be injured."

"So my daughter informs me," Sir George replied in the same whining voice. "Seeing that you claim to be the son of Ralph Dashwood----"

The other man laughed defiantly. All the same 'he could not meet the glance that Mary turned upon him. His bold eyes were turned to her face, then they dropped as if looking for something on the floor.

"I'm very sorry," Drake put in, "but this is a serious matter. The finding of that box, the mere fact that Mr. Dashwood was seen here at the hour of the fire, all make it necessary for me to take certain steps----"

"I must speak," Vincent Dashwood broke out. "I did not mean to proclaim the truth, because I was not ready to do so. And there was Lady Dashwood to be considered. Still, as I see that Mr. Drake is prepare............