thought you had become reconciled--no, I do not mean that,--I thought
your regret might be less poignant."

"I have not permitted myself to speak of it, but I have never ceased
to think of it day and night."

John Linden paused sadly, then resumed:

"If he had died, I might, as you say, have become reconciled; but he
was abducted at the age of four by a revengeful servant whom I had
discharged from my employment. Heaven knows whether he is living or
dead, but it is impressed upon my mind that he still lives, it may be
in misery, it may be as a criminal, while I, his unhappy father, live
on in luxury which I cannot enjoy, with no one to care for me----"

Florence Linden sank impulsively on her knees beside her uncle's
chair.

"Don't say that, uncle," she pleaded. "You know that I love you, Uncle
John."

"And I, too, uncle."

There was a shade of jealousy in the voice of Curtis Waring as he
entered the library through the open door, and approaching his uncle,
pressed his hand.

He was a tall, dark-complexioned man, of perhaps thirty-five, with
shifty, black eyes and thin lips, shaded by a dark mustache. It was
not a face to trust.