“That man’s name was James Mendon.  He was an Englishman.  When I first began practice it was in the West.  That man had a ranch near the little town where I lived with my sister Alice.  Alice was a beautiful girl.  We had lost our parents, and she kept house for me.  The man was as handsome as a devil, and he had the devil’s own way with women.  God only knows what a good girl like my sister saw in him.  He had a bad name, even out in that rough country.  Horrible tales were circulated about his cruelty to animals for one thing.  His cowboys deserted him and told stories.  His very dog turned on him, and bit him.  God knows how he was torturing the animal.  I saw the scar on his hand when he lay on his death-bed.  Well, however it was, my sister loved him and married him, and he treated her like a fiend.  She died, and it was a merciful release.  He deserted her three months before her death.  Sold out all he had, and left her without a cent.  She came back to me, and three months later Clemency was born.”

Gordon paused and looked at James.  “Yes,” he said, “that man was Clemency’s father.”

He waited, but only for a second.  The young man spoke, and his clear young voice rang out like a trumpet.  “I never loved Clemency as I love her now,” he said.

CHAPTER XI

Gordon smiled at James.  “God bless you, boy!” he said.

“What possible difference do you think that could make?” demanded James hotly.  “Could that poor little girl help it?”

“Of course she could not, but some men might object, and with reason, to marrying a girl who came of such stock on her father’s side.”

“I am not one of those men.”

“No, I don’t think you are, but it is only my duty to put the case plainly before you.  That man who was buried this afternoon was simply unspeakable.  He was a monstrosity of perverted morality.  I cannot even bring myself to tell you what I know of him.  I cannot even bring myself to give you the least hint of what my poor young sister, Clemency’s mother, suffered in her brief life with him.  You may fear heredity—­”

“Heredity, nothing!  Don’t I know Clemency?”

“I myself really think that you have nothing whatever to fear.  Clemency is her mother’s living and breathing image as far as looks go, and as far as I can judge in the innermost workings of her mind.  I have not seen in her the slightest taint from her evil father, though God knows I have watched for it with horror as the years have passed.  After she was born I smuggled her away by night, and gave out word that the child had died at the same time with the mother.  There was a private funeral, and the casket was closed.  I had hard work to carry it through successfully, for I was young in those days, and broken-hearted at losing my sister, but carry it through I did, and no one knew except a nurse.  I trusted her, I was obliged to do so,