harrowing scene in the library, where a frantic woman was struggling in
Sally Grover's grasp. He went to her assistance. . . Words of
comfort, of entreaty were of no avail,--Kate Marcy did not seem to hear
them. Hers, in contrast to that other, was the unmeaning grief, the
overwhelming sense of injustice of the child; and with her regained
physical strength the two had all they could do to restrain her.

"I will go to him," she sobbed, between her paroxysms, "you've got no
right to keep me--he's mine . . . he came back to me--he's all I ever
had . . . ."

So intent were they that they did not notice Mr. Bentley standing beside
them until they heard his voice.

"What she says is true," he told them. "Her place is in there. Let her
go."

Kate Marcy raised her head at the words, and looked at him a strange,
half-comprehending, half-credulous gaze. They released her, helped her
towards the bedroom, and closed the door gently behind her. . . The
three sat in silence until the carriage was heard returning, and the
doctor entered.

The examination was brief, and two words, laconically spoken, sufficed
for an explanation--apoplexy, alcohol. The prostrate, quivering woman
was left where they had found her.

Dr. Latimer was a friend of Mr. Bentley's, and betrayed no surprise at a
situation which otherwise might have astonished him. It was only when he
learned the dead man's name, and his parentage, that he looked up quickly