"But what has that got to do with it?" she persisted. "Is
there any reason why I shouldn't be told--everything?"

She was looking at him with a certain amount of demand--and
Ransford, who had always known that some moment of this sort
must inevitably come, felt that she was not going to be put
off with ordinary excuses. He hesitated--and she went on
speaking.

"You know," she continued, almost pleadingly. "We don't know
anything--at all. I never have known, and until lately Dick
has been too young to care--"

"Has he begun asking questions?" demanded Ransford hastily.

"Once or twice, lately--yes," replied Mary. "It's only
natural." She laughed a little--a forced laugh. "They say,"
she went on, "that it doesn't matter, nowadays, if you can't
tell who your grandfather was--but, just think, we don't know
who our father was--except that his name was John Bewery.
That doesn't convey much."

"You know more," said Ransford. "I told you--always have told
you--that he was an early friend of mine, a man of business,
who, with your mother, died young, and I, as their friend,
became guardian to you and Dick. Is--is there anything much
more that I could tell?"

"There's something I should very much like to know
--personally," she answered, after a pause which lasted so