As the Duchess had gazed into Maggie's excited, imploring eyes, it had been borne in upon her carefully judging and painfully hesitant mind that there was better than a fifty per cent chance that Larry was right in his estimate of Maggie; that Maggie's inclination toward criminal adventure, her supreme self-confidence, all her bravado, were but the superficial though strong tendencies developed by her unfortunate environment; that within that cynical, worldly shell there were the vital and plastic makings of a real woman.

And so the long-troubled Duchess, who to her acquaintances had always seemed as unemotional as the dust-coated, moth-eaten parrot which stood in mummified aloofness upon her safe, had made a momentous decision that had sent through her old veins the thrilling sap of a great crisis, a great suspense. She had tried to guide destiny. She was now through with such endeavor. She had no right, because of her love for Larry, to withhold longer the facts of Maggie's parentage. She was now going to tell the truth, and let events work out as they would.

But the events—what were they going to be?

For a moment the Duchess had been impelled to tell the truth straight out to Maggie. But she had caught herself in time. This whole affair was Larry's affair, and the truth belonged to him to be used as he saw fit. So when she had told Maggie that she would get word to Larry, it was this truth which she had had in mind, and only in a very minor way the news which Maggie had brought.

This was, of course, such a truth as could be safely communicated only by word of mouth. The Duchess realized that Larry no longer dared come to her, and that therefore she must manage somehow to get to him. And get to him without betraying his whereabouts.

There was little chance that the police would search her place or greatly bother her. To the police mind, now that Larry was aware he was known to be in New York, the pawnshop would obviously be the last place in which he would seek refuge or through which he would have dealings. Nevertheless, the Duchess deemed it wise to lose no moment and to neglect no possible caution. Therefore, while Barney was still with Chief Barlow and before the general order regarding Larry had more than reached the various police stations, the Duchess, in cape, hat, and veil, was out of her house. A block up the street lived the owner of two or three taxicabs, concerning whom the Duchess, who was almost omniscient in her own world, knew much that the said owner ardently desired should be known no further. A few sentences with this gentleman, and fifteen minutes later, huddled back in the darkened corner of a taxicab, she rolled over the Queensboro Bridge out upon Long Island on her mission of releasing a fact whose effect she could not foresee.

An hour and a half after that Larry was leading her to a bench in the scented darkness of the Sherwoods' lawn. She had telephoned “Mr. Brandon” from a drug-store booth in Flushing, and Larry had been waiting for her near the entrance to Cedar Crest.

“What brought you out here like this, grandmother?” Larry whispered in amazement as he sat down beside her.

“To tell you that the police are after you,” she whispered back.

“I knew that already.”

“Yes, I knew that you would.”

“But how did you find out?”

“Maggie told me.”

“Maggie!”

“She came down to see me, told me what had just happened at her place, told me about Barney hurrying away to slip the news to that Gavegan, and begged me to warn you at once. She was terribly nervous and wrought up.”

“Maggie did that!” he breathed. His heart leaped at her unexpected concern for him. “Maggie did that!” And then: “There wasn't any need; she should have known that I would know.”

“It was rather foolish in a way—but Maggie was too excited to use cool reason.”

His grandmother did not speak for a moment. “Her losing her head and coming shows that she cares for you, Larry.”

He could make no response. This was indeed the clearest evidence Maggie had yet given that possibly she might care.

“Maggie may have lost her head in her excitement,” he managed to say; “but, grandmother, there was no reason for you to lose your head so far as to come away out here to tell me about the police.”

“I didn't come away out here to tell you about the police,” she replied. “I came to tell you something else.”

“Yes?”

“You're sure you really care for Maggie?”

“I told you that when I was down to see you this evening.”

Though the Duchess had decided, the desire to protect Larry remained tenaciously in her and made it hard for her jealous love to take a risk. “You're sure she might turn out all right—that is, under better influences?”

“I'm sure, grandmother.” He recalled how a few hours earlier at the Grantham the demand of Old Jimmie that she remain with him had seemed the force that had controlled her decision. “There would be no doubt of it if it were not for Old Jimmie, and the people he's kept her among, and the ideas he's been feeding her since she was a baby. I don't think she has any love for her father; but they say blood is mighty thick and I guess with her it's just the usual instinct of a child to stand with her father and do what he says. Yes, if she were not held back and held down by having Old Jimmie for a father, I'm sure she'd be all right.”

The Duchess felt that the moment had now arrived for her to unloose her secret. But despite her fixed purpose to tell, her words had to be forced out, and were halting, bald.

“Jimmie Carlisle—is not her father.”

“What's that?” exclaimed Larry.

“Not so loud. I said Jimmie Carlisle is not her father.”

“Grandmother!”

“Her father is Joe Ellison.”

“Grandmother!” He caught her hands. “Why—why—” But for a moment his utter dumbfoundment paralyzed his speech. “You're—you're sure of that?” he finally got out.

“Yes.” She went on and told of how her suspic............