Colonel Arran bent his head and touched his long gray moustache with bony fingers.

“The proceeding was farcical; the decree a fraud.  I warned her; but she snapped her fingers at me and married her cousin the next day. . . .  And then I did my duty by civilisation.”

Still Berkley never stirred.  The older man looked down at the wine-soiled cloth, traced the outline of the crimson stain with unsteady finger.  Then, lifting his head: 

“I had that infamous decree set aside,” he said grimly.  “It was a matter of duty and of conscience, and I did it without remorse. . . .  They were on what they supposed to be a wedding trip.  But I had warned her.”  He shrugged his massive shoulders.  “If they were not over-particular they were probably happy.  Then he broke his neck hunting—­before you were born.”

“Was he my father?”

“I am taking the chance that he was not.”

“You had reason to believe——­”

“I thought so.  But—­your mother remained silent.  And her answer to my letters was to have you christened under the name you bear to-day, Philip Ormond Berkley.  And then, to force matters, I made her status clear to her.  Maybe—­I don’t know—­but my punishment of her may have driven her to a hatred of me—­a desperation that accepted everything—­even you!”

Berkley lifted a countenance from which every vestige of colour had fled.

“Why did you tell me this?”

“Because I believe that there is every chance—­that you may be legally entitled to my name.  Since I have known who you are, I—­I have had you watched.  I have hesitated—­a long while.  My brokers have watched you for a year, now; my attorneys for much longer.  To-day you stand in need of me, if ever you have stood in need of anybody.  I take the chance that you have that claim on me; I offer to receive you, provide for you.  That is all, Berkley.  Now you know everything.”

“Who else—­knows?”

“Knows what?”

“Knows what you did to my mother?”

“Some people among the families immediately concerned,” replied Colonel Arran coolly.

“Who are they?”

“Your mother’s relatives, the Paiges, the Berkleys—­my family, the Arrans, the Lents——­”

“What Lents?” interrupted the young man looking up sharply.

“They live in Brooklyn.  There’s a brother and a sister, orphans; and an uncle.  Captain Josiah Lent.”

“Oh. . . .  Who else?”

“A Mrs. Craig who lives in Brooklyn.  She was Celia Paige, your mother’s maid of honour.”

“Who else?”

“A sister-in-law of Mrs. Craig, formerly my ward.  She is now a widow, a Mrs. Paige, living on London Terrace.  She, however, has no knowledge of the matter in question; nor have the Lents, nor any one in the Craig family except Mrs. Craig.”

“Who else?”

“Nobody.”

“I see. . . .  And, as I understand it, you are now stepping forward to offer me—­on the chance of—­of——­”