“He was a good man.”

“He is a good man.”

“I will tell you why he left me.  He learned, no matter how, that I had not been married, as I said I had.”

She looked up, as if expecting him to speak.  He said nothing, but stood with eyes fixed on the floor.

“I admitted, too, that I kept alive the memory of a man who had played an evil part in my life; that I believed I cared for him still, more than for my husband.”

“Ida, for God’s sake, you do not mean”—­

“Yes, I meant you then.  But when he went away, when he proved himself so noble, I changed.  I learned to hate the memory of the other man.  But he came back too soon.  I said things madly—­things I did not mean.  He went again.  And then afterward I knew that I loved him.”

“I am glad of that, upon my soul!” said Telford, letting go a long breath.

She smiled strangely and with a kind of hardness.  “A few days ago I had determined to find him if I could, and to that end I intended to ask a man who had proved himself a friend, to learn, if possible, where he was in America.  I came here to see him and my daughter.”

“Who is the man?”

“Mr. George Hagar.”

A strange light shot from Telford’s eyes.  “Hagar is a fortunate man,” he said.  Then dreamily:  “You have a daughter.  I wish to God that—­that ours had lived.”

“You did not seem to care when I wrote and told you that she was dead.”

“I do not think that I cared then.  Besides”—­

“Besides you loved that other woman, and my child was nothing to you,” she said with low scorn.  “I have seen her in London.  I am glad—­glad that she hates you.  I know she does,” she added.  “She would never forgive you.  She was too good for you, and you ruined her life.”

He was very quiet and spoke in a clear, meditative voice.  “You are right.  I think she hates me.  But you are wrong, too, for she has forgiven me.”

“You have seen her?” She eyed him sharply.

“Yes, to-day.”  His look wandered to a table whereon was a photograph of her daughter.  He glanced at it keenly.  A look of singular excitement sprang to his eyes.  “That is your daughter?”

She inclined her head.

“How old is she?” He picked up the photograph and held it, scrutinizing it.

“She is seventeen,” was the reply in a cold voice.

He turned a worn face from the picture to the woman.  “She is my child.  You lied to me.”

“It made no difference to you then.  Why should it make any difference now?  Why should you take it so tragically?”

“I do not know, but now”—­His head moved, his lips trembled.

“But now she is the daughter of John Gladney’s wife.  She is loved and cared for by people who are better, infinitely better, than her father and mother were or could be.  She believes her father is dead.  And he is dead!”

“My child!  My child!” he whispered brokenly over the photograph.  “You will tell her that her father is not dead.  You”—­