“Oh, dear!” said Leonore.  “That dreadful paper.  I can’t bear to read it.  Is it very bad to-day?”

“I haven’t read it,” said Peter, smiling.  “I never read—­” then Peter coughed, suddenly looked sad, and continued—­“the parts that do not speak of me.”  “That isn’t a lie,” he told himself, “I don’t read them.”  But he felt guilty.  Clearly Peter was losing his old-time straightforwardness.

“After its saying that you had deceived your clients into settling those suits against Mr. Bohlmann, upon his promise to help you in politics, I don’t believe they can say anything worse,” said Leonore, putting two lumps of sugar (with her fingers) into a cup of tea.  Then she stirred the tea, and tasted it.  Then she touched the edge of the cup with her lips.  “Is that right?” she asked, as she passed it to Peter.

“Absolutely,” said Peter, looking the picture of bliss.  But then he remembered that this wasn’t his role, so he looked sad and said:  “That hurt me, I confess.  It is so unkind.”

“Poor dear,” whispered a voice.  “You shall have an extra one to-day, and you shall take just as long as you want!”

Now, how could mortal man look grieved, even over an American newspaper, with that prospect in view?  It is true that “one” is a very indefinite thing.  Perhaps Leonore merely meant another cup of tea.  Whatever she meant, Peter never learned, for, barely had he tasted his tea when the girl on the lounge beside him gave a cry.  She rose, and as she did so, some of the tea-things fell to the floor with a crash.

“Leonore!” cried Peter.  “What—­”

“Peter!” cried Leonore.  “Say it isn’t so?” It was terrible to see the suffering in her face and to hear the appeal in her voice.

“My darling,” cried the mother, “what is the matter?”

“It can’t be,” cried Leonore.  “Mamma!  Papa!  Say it isn’t so?”

“What, my darling?” said Peter, supporting the swaying figure.

“This,” said Leonore, huskily, holding out the newspaper.

Mrs. D’Alloi snatched it.  One glance she gave it.  “Oh, my poor darling!” she cried.  “I ought not to have allowed it.  Peter!  Peter!  Was not the stain great enough, but you must make my poor child suffer for it?” She shoved Peter away, and clasped Leonore wildly in her arms.

“Mamma!” cried Leonore.  “Don’t talk so!  Don’t!  I know he didn’t!  He couldn’t!”

Peter caught up the paper.  There in big head-lines was: 

    SPEAK UP, STIRLING!

* * * * *

    WHO IS THIS BOY?

    DETECTIVE PELTER FINDS A WARD UNKNOWN TO THE COURTS, AND
    EXPLANATIONS ARE IN ORDER FROM

    PURITY STIRLING.

The rest of the article it is needless to quote.  What it said was so worded as to convey everything vile by innuendo and inference, yet in truth saying nothing.

“Oh, my darling!” continued Mrs. D’Alloi.  “You have a right to kill me for letting him come here after he had confessed it to me.  But I—­Oh, don’t tremble so.  Oh, Watts!  We have killed her.”