"What! Wesley Elliot?"

His face darkened.

"Thank heaven you did not tell him! I am at least no--"

He checked himself with an effort.

"See here," he said: "You--you mustn't speak to any one of what you
have told me--not for the present, anyway. I want you to promise me."

Her slight figure sagged wearily against the back of her chair. She
was looking up at him like a child spent with an unavailing passion
of grief.

"I have promised that so many times," she murmured: "I have concealed
everything so long--it will be easier for me."

"It will be easier for you," he agreed quickly; "and--perhaps better,
on the whole."

"But they will not know they are being paid--they won't understand--"

"That makes no difference," he decided. "It would make them, perhaps,
less contented to know where the money was coming from. Tell me, does
your servant--this woman you brought from Boston; does she know?"

"You mean Martha? I--I'm not sure. She was a servant in my uncle's
home for years. She wanted to live with me, so I sent for her. I
never spoke to her about--father. She seems devoted to me. I have