“I believe you told me that neither your mother nor you had ever heard anything of your father since he left.”  Dicky’s voice was casual, but there was a note in it that puzzled me.

“That is true,” I answered, and then stopped, for the conviction had suddenly come to me that while I had never seen nor heard from my father since he left us—­indeed, I had no recollection of him—­yet I was not sure whether or not my mother had ever received any communication from him.  I had heard her say that she had no idea whether he was living or dead, and I had received my impression from that.  But even as I answered Dicky’s question there came to my mind the memory of an injunction my mother had once laid upon me, an injunction which concerned a locked and sealed box among her belongings.

I felt that I could not speak of it even to Dicky, so put all thought of it aside until I should be alone.

“I do not think I can make you understand,” I began, “how torn between two emotions I have always been when I think of my father.  Of course, the predominant feeling toward him has always been hatred for the awful suffering he caused my mother.  I never heard anything to foster this feeling, however, from my mother.  She rarely spoke of him, but when she did it was always to tell me of the adoration he had felt for me as a baby, of the care and money he had lavished on me.  But while with one part of me I longed to hear her tell me of those early days, yet the hatred I felt for him always surged so upon me as to make me refuse to listen to any mention of him.

“But since she went away from me the desire to know something of my father has become almost an obsession with me.  My hatred of his treachery to my mother is still as strong as ever, but in my mother’s last illness she told me that she forgave him, and asked me if ever he came into my life to forget the past and to remember only that he was my father.  I am afraid I never could do that, but yet I long so earnestly to know something of him.

“So now you see, Dicky,” I concluded, “why Mr. Gordon has such a fascination for me.  He knew my father and my mother—­from his own words I gather that he was the nearest person to them.  He is the only link connecting me with my babyhood, for Jack Bickett, my nearest relative, was but a young boy himself when my father left, and remembered little about it.  I don’t want to displease you, Dicky, but I would so like to see Mr. Gordon occasionally.”

Dicky held me close and kissed me.

“Why, certainly, sweetheart,” he exclaimed.  “Whenever you wish I’ll arrange a little dinner down-town for Mr. Gordon.  What do you think about inviting the Underwoods, too?  They could entertain me while you’re talking over your family history.”

“That would be very nice,” I agreed, but I had an inward dread of talking to Robert Gordon with the malicious eyes of Harry Underwood upon me.  Indeed, I felt intuitively that if ever Mr. Gordon were to reveal the history of his friendship for my mother to me, it would be when no other ears, not even Dicky’s, were listening.