Gertrude turned pale.

“And the only man who could have cleared Jack can never do it!” she said despairingly.

“Also,” I replied coldly, “Mr. Armstrong is for ever beyond the power of defending himself.  When your Jack comes to me, with some two hundred thousand dollars in his hands, which is about what you have lost, I shall believe him innocent.”

Halsey threw his cigarette away and turned on me.

“There you go!” he exclaimed.  “If he was the thief, he could return the money, of course.  If he is innocent, he probably hasn’t a tenth of that amount in the world.  In his hands!  That’s like a woman.”

Gertrude, who had been pale and despairing during the early part of the conversation, had flushed an indignant red.  She got up and drew herself to her slender height, looking down at me with the scorn of the young and positive.

“You are the only mother I ever had,” she said tensely.  “I have given you all I would have given my mother, had she lived—­my love, my trust.  And now, when I need you most, you fail me.  I tell you, John Bailey is a good man, an honest man.  If you say he is not, you—­you—­”

“Gertrude,” Halsey broke in sharply.  She dropped beside the table and, burying her face in her arms broke into a storm of tears.

“I love him—­love him,” she sobbed, in a surrender that was totally unlike her.  “Oh, I never thought it would be like this.  I can’t bear it.  I can’t.”

Halsey and I stood helpless before the storm.  I would have tried to comfort her, but she had put me away, and there was something aloof in her grief, something new and strange.  At last, when her sorrow had subsided to the dry shaking sobs of a tired child, without raising her head she put out one groping hand.

“Aunt Ray!” she whispered.  In a moment I was on my knees beside her, her arm around my neck, her cheek against my hair.

“Where am I in this?” Halsey said suddenly and tried to put his arms around us both.  It was a welcome distraction, and Gertrude was soon herself again.  The little storm had cleared the air.  Nevertheless, my opinion remained unchanged.  There was much to be cleared up before I would consent to any renewal of my acquaintance with John Bailey.  And Halsey and Gertrude knew it, knowing me.

CHAPTER XI

HALSEY MAKES A CAPTURE

It was about half-past eight when we left the dining-room and still engrossed with one subject, the failure of the bank and its attendant evils Halsey and I went out into the grounds for a stroll Gertrude followed us shortly.  “The light was thickening,” to appropriate Shakespeare’s description of twilight, and once again the tree-toads and the crickets were making night throb with their tiny life.  It was almost oppressively lonely, in spite of its beauty, and I felt a sickening pang of homesickness for my