“Did you forget that she was also mine?”

“I tried to.  After a bit, I did—­after the identities of the babies became blurred.  If you stop to think and are just, you will understand that I took a desperate chance to accomplish the most good to Meredith’s child.  That is all that seemed to count.  Suppose you could claim your child now, would its future be as secure as it would be with me?  Have you really the child’s interest at heart—­you, who left its mother to——­”

“The mother—­left me!  Don’t overlook facts, Doris.”  Thornton’s face flamed angrily.

“Yes.  In self-defence she left you!” Doris held him with eyes heavy with misery.  “I knew everything necessary to know, George, that enabled me to take this step.”

“But not enough to make you pause and consider!” A bitterness rang in the words.

“There are some occasions when one cannot, dare not, consider,” said Doris.

Thornton got up and paced the room.  Suddenly he turned like a man at bay.

“But the inheritance?” he flung out.

“I told you, George, it was the inheritance that forced me to it.”

“I mean—­” here Thornton’s eyes fell—­“I mean the money,” he stammered.

“I see!” Doris’s voice trembled; then she hastened on:  “The money you sent, George, has never been touched.  I have waited for this hour.”

“And your revenge!” muttered Thornton.

“I had not considered it in that light.”  A deep contempt throbbed in the words.  “When I remember I am not bitter, but I am filled, anew, with a desire to save Meredith’s child!”

“At the risk of passing her off as the child of—­whom?”

And then Doris smiled—­a long, strange smile that burnt its way into Thornton’s consciousness.

“It was that doubt that saved, gave hope,” she said, and quickly added, “I will tell you all there is to know, and then I request that you spare me another interview until you have come to a decision regarding—­your child.”

There was pitifully little to tell.  A deserted mountain child!

“Who deserted it?” Thornton broke in.

“I did not ask.  Sister Angela promised to find a home for it where no one would know of its sad birth—­there are people willing to risk that much for a little child.  I am!”

“And this—­this Sister Angela——­” Thornton asked.

“She died the year after.”

“And the others?”

“I doubt if they ever knew much, but if they did they forgot—­they are like that; besides, I have not heard of them in years.”

More and more Thornton realized the hopelessness of personal investigation, and he was not prepared to take outside counsel, certainly not yet.

“The Sisters did fairly well for the outcast in this instance,” he sneered, “but we may all have to pay some day.  Murder will out, you know!”

“Of course,” Doris agreed, wearily; “we all understand that.”