“Stop, sir,” said Bertram.  “What was my—­my—­what was the name of the man to whom I owe my being?”

“Your mother has not told me.  She says she will never reveal his name.  She says that your stepfather gave you legally the name of Bertram.  That, at least, need never be disturbed.”

“Then Catherine and Mabel are not my sisters.”

“They are your half-sisters; that is a small matter.”

“True.  Everything in the world is a small matter in comparison with the awful fact that I am the son of a felon.”

“I am deeply pained for you, Bertram.  Your mother knew how this would strike home.  Hence her sin.”

“I forgot.  I have to hear of that.  Go on, Mr. Ingram.”

“At the time of your father’s death she was, she tells me, a very beautiful young woman.  She was alone and peculiarly defenceless; Major Bertram, he was a Major at the time, made her acquaintance in Calcutta.  You will be startled, Bertram, at the way in which these two made friends.  She was asked to take care of Major Bertram’s baby daughter.”

“Then he, too, was married before.”

“Yes, he had a young wife, who died when the baby was born.  Little Nina was six months old when Major Bertram, who had to accompany his regiment up the country, asked your mother to look after her.”

“Nina, did you say Nina, Mr. Ingram?”

“Yes.  I need not conceal from you who that Nina was.”

Bertram covered his face with his hands.

“I can’t bear this,” he said.  “This story unmans me.”

“You must listen.  I am making the narrative as brief as possible.  Your mother tells me that when the baby was given to her to care for she meant to be very good to it.  She was miserable at the time, for her sorrows with and about your father had almost maddened her.  She was good to the child, and very glad of the money which the Major paid her for giving the little creature a home.  She kept the baby for some months, nearly a year; and whenever he could Major Bertram called to see her.  Soon the meaning of his visits dawned upon her.  He had fallen in love with her.  He was, in all respects, a desirable husband; he was of good family; his antecedents were honorable, his own life stainless.  She thought of you, she was always thinking about you, you were at a poor little school in England.  She thought what your lot might be, if you were really the son of this honorable man.  She tells me that at this time her love for you was like a terrible passion within her.  Beyond all things in the world she dreaded your learning your father’s history—­she shuddered as she fancied your baby lips asking her artless questions which she could never answer.  Your father’s name was, alas, notorious.  Bearing that name, you must one day learn the history of your father’s ruin, disgrace, dishonor.”

“Mr. Ingram,” said Bertram, “you are crushing me.  How much more must you say about my—­my father?”