As the last brave verse was ended, Gordon Richardson said, “By Jove, how it comes back to me—­you used to recite Poe’s ‘Bells’ at school.”

Roger laughed.  “Yes.  I fancy I made them boom toward the end.”

“You used to make me shiver and shake in my shoes.”

Aunt Frances’ voice broke in crisply, “What do you mean, Gordon; were you at school with Mr. Poole?”

“Yes.  St. Martin’s, Aunt Frances.”

The name had a magic effect upon Mrs. Clendenning; the boys of St. Martin’s were of the elect.

“Poole?” she said.  “Are you one of the New York Pooles?”

Roger nodded.  “Yes.  With a Southern grafting—­my mother was a Carew.”

He was glad now to tell it.  Let them follow what clues they would.  He was ready for them.  Henceforth nothing was to be hidden.

“I am going down next week,” he continued, “to stay for a time with a cousin of my mother’s—­Miss Patty Carew.  She lives still in the old manor house which was my grandfather’s—­she hadn’t much but poverty and the old house for an inheritance, but it is still a charming place.”

Aunt Frances was intent, however, on the New York branch of his family tree.

“Was your grandfather Angus Poole?”

“Yes.”

Grace was wickedly conscious of her mother’s state of mind.  No one could afford to ignore any descendant of Angus Poole.  To be sure, a second generation had squandered the fortune he had left, but his name was still one to conjure with.

“I never dreamed——­” said Aunt Frances.

“Naturally,” said Roger, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.  “I am afraid I’m not a credit to my hard-headed financier of a grandfather.”

It seemed to Mary that for the first time she was seeing him as he might have been before his trouble came upon him.  And she was swept forward to the thought of what he might yet be.  She grew warm and rosy in her delight that he should thus show himself to her people.  She looked up to find Porter’s accusing eyes fixed on her; and in the grip of a sudden shyness, she gave herself again to her tea-making.

“Surely some of you will have another cup?”

It developed that Aunt Frances would, and that the water was cold, and that the little lamp was empty of alcohol.

Mary filled it, and, her hand shaking from her inward excitement, let the alcohol overflow on the tray and on the kettle frame.  She asked for a match and Gordon gave her one.

Then, nobody knew how it happened!  The flames seemed to sweep up in a blue sheet toward the lace frills in the front of Mary’s gown.  It leaped toward her face.  Constance screamed.  Then Roger reached her, and she was in his arms, her face crushed against the thickness of his coat, his hands snatching at her frills.

It was over in a moment.  The flames were out.  Very gently, he loosed his arms.  She lay against his shoulder white and still.  Her face was untouched, but across her throat, which the low collar had left exposed, was a hot red mark.  And a little lock of hair was singed at one side, her frills were in ruins.