“It’s this way, sir,” explained the little man in a matter-of-fact voice, “this chase after you has cost the government a heavy sum already, and your prosecution is likely to make public an affair which, under the circumstances, we consider it more diplomatic to hush up.  Any danger to our country has passed, for information obtained ten years ago regarding our defenses, codes, and the like, is to-day worthless because all conditions are completely changed.  Only the crime of treason remains; a crime that deserves the severest punishment; but the guilty persons have escaped punishment and are now facing a higher tribunal—­ both the principal in the crime and his weak and foolish tool.  So it is best for all concerned, Mr. Hathaway, that we get at the truth of this matter and, when it is clearly on record in the government files, declare the case closed for all time.  The State Department has more important matters that demand its attention.”

The old man’s head was bowed, his chin resting on his breast.  It was now the turn of Mary Louise to smooth his thin gray locks.

“If you will make a statement, sir,” continued O’Gorman, “we shall be able to verify it.”

Slowly Hathaway raised his head.

“I have no statement to make,” he persisted.

“This is rank folly,” exclaimed O’Gorman, “but if you refuse to make the statement, I shall make it myself.”

“I beg you—­I implore you!” said Hathaway pleadingly.

The detective rose and stood before him, looking not at the old man but at the young girl—­Mary Louise.

“Tell me, my child,” he said gently, “would you not rather see your grandfather—­an honorable, high-minded gentleman—­acquitted of an unjust accusation, even at the expense of some abasement and perhaps heart-aches on your part, rather than allow him to continue to suffer disgrace in order to shield you from so slight an affliction?”

“Sir!” cried Hathaway indignantly, starting to his feet; “how dare you throw the burden on this poor child?  Have you no mercy—­no compassion?”

“Plenty,” was the quiet reply.  “Sit down, sir.  This girl is stronger than you think.  She will not be made permanently unhappy by knowing the truth, I assure you.”

Hathaway regarded him with a look of anguish akin to fear.  Then he turned and seated himself, again putting an arm around Mary Louise as if to shield her.

Said Irene, speaking very slowly: 

“I am quite sure Mr. O’Gorman is right.  Mary Louise is a brave girl, and she loves her grandfather.”

Then Mary Louise spoke—­hesitatingly, at first, for she could not yet comprehend the full import of the officer’s words.

“If you mean,” said she, “that it will cause me sorrow and humiliation to free my grandfather from suspicion, and that he refuses to speak because he fears the truth will hurt me, then I ask you to speak out, Mr. O’Gorman.”

“Of course,” returned the little man, smiling at her approvingly; “that is just what I intend to do.  All these years, my girl, your grandfather has accepted reproach and disgrace in order to shield the good name of a woman and to save her from a prison cell.  And that woman was your mother.”