house. She is my favourite--and yours, Mary, God help us."

"Kathleen?" whispered Mrs. Bingle dully.

"Kathleen?" repeated Sydney Force, staring blankly at the little man.

"Yes," said Mr. Bingle, and sat down suddenly in a big arm chair,
burying his face in his hands.

No one spoke for many minutes. Flanders had the grace to turn away
from the group. He was an unusual type of newspaper reporter. Here was
something that would make a splendid "story," and yet he was fine
enough to turn his back upon the opportunity that lay open to him.

Mr. Force's hands were gripping the back of a chair so rigidly that
the knuckles were white and gleaming.

"For a year, did you say, Bingle?" he questioned, steadying his voice
with an effort.

"Almost a year," gulped the little man, looking up through streaming
eyes. "Her mother died when Kathie was about a year old. The father
never saw his child. He had deceived the woman. He cast her off and--
married another, I take it, although I am a bit hazy. I was so upset
that I--I scarcely remember what the man said. Now the--the father
wants to find his child. He--he wants to give her a home--Oh, Lordy,
Lordy! I can't bear the thought of it. Sh! Don't cry, Mary. Maybe
he'll let us keep her. He is married. Perhaps he can't afford to
acknowledge her as his child under the circumstances. I--I put it up
to the detective. He actually grinned in my face and said he was quite