hand, failing in which she had shot him, inflicting an inconsiderable wound, and then killed herself; and that Dr. Surtaine had thereupon turned his son out of the house.  Hal’s removal to the hotel served to bear out this surmise, and the Doctor’s strategic effort to cover the situation by giving it out that his son’s part of the mansion was being remodeled—­even going to the lengths of actually setting a force of men to work there—­failed to convince the gossips.

Between the two men, the situation was now most difficult.  Quite instinctively Hal had fallen in with his father’s theory that the primal necessity, after the tragedy, was to keep everything out of print.  That by so doing he wholly subverted his own hard-won policy did not, in the stress of the crisis, occur to him.  Later he realized it.  Yet he could see no other course of action as having been possible to him.  The mere plain facts of the case constituted an accusation against Dr. Surtaine, unthinkable for a son to publish against his father.  And Hal still cozened himself into a belief in the quack’s essential innocence, persuading his own reason that there was a blind side to the man which rendered it impossible for him to see through the legal into the ethical phases of the question.  By this method he was saving his loyalty and affection.  But so profound had been the shock that he could not, for a time, endure the constant companionship of former days.  Consequently the frequent calls which Dr. Surtaine deemed it expedient to make for the sake of appearances, at Hal’s hotel, resulted in painful, rambling, topic-shifting talks, devoid of any human touch other than the pitiful and thwarted affection of two personalities at hopeless odds.  “Least said soonest mended” was a favorite aphorism of the experienced quack.  But in this tangle it failed him.  It was he who first touched on the poisoned theme.

“Look here, Boy-ee,” said he, a week after the burial.  “We’re both scared to death of what each of us is thinking.  Let’s agree to forget this until you are ready to talk it out with me.”

“What good will talk do?” said Hal drearily.

“None at present.”  His father sighed.  He had hoped for a clean breast of it, a confession of the intrigue that should leave the way open to a readjustment of relations.  “So let’s put the whole thing aside.”

“All right,” agreed Hal listlessly.  “I suppose you know,” he added, “before we close the subject, that I’ve ordered the Relief Pills advertising out of the ‘Clarion.’”

“You needn’t have bothered.  It won’t be offered again.”

Silence fell between them.  “I’ve about decided to quit that line,” the charlatan resumed with an obvious effort.  “Not that it isn’t strictly legal,” he added, falling back upon his reserve defense.  “But it’s too troublesome.  The copy is ticklish; I’ve had to write all those ads. myself.  And, at that, there’s some newspapers won’t accept ’em and others that want to edit ’em.  Belford Couch and I have been going over the whole matter.  He’s the diplomat of the concern.  And we’ve about decided to sell out.  Anyway,” he added, brightening, “there ain’t hardly money enough in a side-line like the Pills to pay for the trouble of running it separate.”