“Come away now, for Heaven’s sake.  Can’t you realize it’s no good?” said Jane, white to the lips.

Silas Finn again cast her off and railed and raved at her.  “I will not go away,” he cried in wild passion.  “I will not allow my own son to raise an impious hand against the Almighty.”

“Lor’ lumme!” gasped Barney Bill, dropping his hat.  “He’s done it.”

There was a silence.  Silas Finn stood shaking in the middle of the room, the sweat streaming down his forehead.

Paul turned at the door and walked slowly up to him.  “Your son?  What do you mean?”

Jane, with wringing hands and tense, uplifted face, said in a queer cracked voice:  “He promised us not to speak.  He has broken his promise.”

“You broke your sacred word,” said Barney Bill.

The man’s face grew haggard.  His passion left him as suddenly as it had seized him.  He collapsed, a piteous wreck, looked wide of the three, and threw out his hands helplessly.  “I broke my promise.  May God forgive me!”

“That’s neither here nor there,” said Paul, standing over him.  “You must answer my question.  What do you mean?”

Barney Bill limped a step or two toward him and cleared his throat.  “He’s quite correct, sonny.  Silas Kegworthy’s your father right enough.”

“Kegworthy?”

“Yes.  Changed his name for business—­and other reasons.”

“He?” said Paul, half dazed for the moment and pointing at Silas Finn.  “His name is Kegworthy and he is my father?”

“Yes, sonny.  ’Tain’t my fault, or Jane’s.  He took his Bible oath he wouldn’t tell yer.  We was afraid, so we come with him.”

“Then?” queried Paul, jerking a thumb toward Lancashire.

“Polly Kegworthy?  Yes.  She was yer mother.”

Paul set his teeth and drew a deep breath—­not of air, but of a million sword points, Jane watched him out of frightened eyes.  She alone, with her all but life-long knowledge of him, and with her woman’s intuition, realized the death-blow that he had received.  And when she saw him take it unflinching and stand proud and stern, her heart leaped toward him, though she knew that the woman in the great chased silver photograph frame on the mantelpiece, the great and radiant lady, the high and mighty and beautiful and unapproachable Princess, was the woman he loved.  Paul touched his father on the wrist, and motioned to a chair.

“Please sit down.  You too, please,”—­he waved a hand, and himself resumed his seat in his writing chair.  He turned it so that he could rest his elbow on his table and his forehead in his palm.  “You claim to be my father,” said he.  “Barney Bill, in whom I have implicit confidence, confirms it.  He says that Mrs. Button is my mother—­”

“She has been dead these six years,” said Barney Bill.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Paul.

“I didn’t think it would interest yer, sonny,” replied Barney Bill, in great distress.  “Yer see, we conspirated together for yer never to know nothing at all about all this.  Anyway, she’s dead and won’t worry yer any more.”