When her father had gone Sybil addressed a note to Mr. Burthon which read:

“I will call upon you, at your club, for a private interview at twelve o’clock precisely. As all your future depends upon this meeting you will not fail to keep the appointment.”

She signed this message with the initials “S. C.” and Mr. Burthon, receiving it as he was about to start for Dominguez in his motor car, for the messenger had had a lively chase over town to catch him, read and reread the epistle carefully, was thoughtful a moment, and then ordered his man to drive him to the club.

“‘S. C.,’” he mused; “who on earth can it be? A woman’s handwriting, of course, crude and unformed. When women intrigue there is usually a reason for it. Better find out what’s in the wind, even at the loss of a little valuable time. That’s the safest plan.”

He reached his club at exactly twelve o’clock and heard a woman inquiring for him of the doorkeeper. 165He met her, bowed, and without a word led her to his own private sitting room, on the third floor. The woman—or was it a girl?—was, he observed, heavily veiled, but as soon as they were alone she removed the veil and looked at him steadfastly from a pair of dark, luminous eyes.

Mr. Burthon shifted uneasily in his chair. He had never seen the girl before, yet there was something singularly familiar in her features.

“Be good enough to tell me who you are,” he said in the gentle tone he invariably employed toward women. “I have granted this interview at your request, but I am very busy to-day and have little time to spare you.”

“I am your niece,” she replied, slowly and deliberately.

“Oh!” he exclaimed; then paused to observe her curiously. “So, you are my sister Marian’s daughter.”

“Exactly.”

“I knew she had a child, for often she wrote me about it; but her early death and my estrangement with your father prevented me from seeing you, until now. Your mother, my dear, was a—a noble woman.”

“You are not telling the truth,” said Sybil, quietly. “She was quite the contrary.”

He started and flushed. Then he replied, somewhat confused by the girl’s scornful regard:

166“At least, I loved her. She was my only sister.”

“And your accomplice.”

“Eh?” He stared, aghast. Then, quickly recovering himself, he remarked:

“You were rather too young, when she died, to judge your mother’s character correctly.”

“It is true; but I remember her with abhorrence.”

“Your father, on the other hand,” observed Mr. Burthon, his face hardening, “might well deserve your hatred and aversion. He is a scoundrel.”

“I have heard him say so,” replied Sybil, smiling, “but I do not believe it. In any event his iniquity could not equal that of the Burthons.”

“We are complimentary,” said her uncle, returning the smile with seeming amusement. “But I regret to say I have no time to further converse with you to-day. Will you call again, if you have anything especial to say to me?”

“No,” replied Sybil. “You must listen to me to-day.”

“To-morrow—”

“To-morrow,” she interrupted, “you may be in prison. It is not easy to interview criminals in jail, is it?”

He looked at her now with more than curiosity; his gaze was searching, half fearful, inquiring.

167“You speak foolishly,” said he.

“Yet you understand me perfectly,” she returned.

“I confess that I do not,” he coldly persisted.

“Then I must explain,” said she. “When my mother died I was but eight years of age. But I was old for my years, and on her deathbed your sister placed in my hands a sealed envelope, directing me to guard it carefully and secretly, and not to open it until I was eighteen years of age—and not then unless I had in some way incurred the enmity and persecution of my uncle, George Burthon. She said it was her confession.”

He sat perfectly still, as if turned to stone, his eyes fixed full upon the girl’s face. With an effort he said, in a soft voice:

“Have I persecuted you?”

“Indirectly; yes.”

“But you cannot be eighteen yet!”

“No,” she admitted; “I am only seventeen.”

He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Then—”

“But I am half a Burthon,” Sybil continued, “and therefore have little respect for the wishes of others—especially when they interfere with my own desires. I kept the letter my mother gave me, but had no interest in opening it until the other day.”

168“And you read it then?”

“Two or three times—perhaps half a dozen—with great care.”

“Where is that letter now?”

“Where you cannot find it, clever as you are. I may say I have great respect for your cleverness, my dear uncle, since reading the letter. How paltry the story of Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde seems after knowing you!”

He moved uneasily in his seat; but the man was on the defensive now, and eyed his accuser steadily.

“You seem much like your mother,” he suggested, reflectively.

“But you are wrong; I am more like my father.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“What matter, my child? You have a rare inheritance, on either side.”

They sat in silence a moment. Then he said:

“You h............