along in the wee sma' hours. The great house was as still as the
grave, save for the occasional crack of shrinking woodwork and the
rattle of dislodged icicles on the window-ledges outside. The wind had
died away. It seemed that all nature, respecting their mood, had
hushed its every noise in order that they might think, and think, and
think on without hope or a single sign of promise in this time of
despair.

They were to lose Kathleen. The man had been somewhat vague about it,
but the situation was clear to them, even though it was not so to him.
Their claim to the child--the one they loved best of all--was no
longer undivided. A real father had turned up to assert his rights.
They might dispute his claim and make the affair so awkward and so
unpleasant for him that he would withdraw, but what would be their
gain? The man existed. He was the real father. Kathleen was the flesh
and blood of this tardy penitent, this betrayer of women, this coward.
Never again, so long as she lived, could she be looked upon as theirs.
Even though she remained with them, and in perfect contentment, there
would still be the sinister shadow lying across the path--the shadow
of a man hiding, of a man who dared not come out into the open but
whose everlasting presence was a threat.

They did not know this man, they did not know whether he was a
blackguard or a gentleman. He was a destroyer; that much they knew. He
had wrecked a human life. The detective had declared to Mr. Bingle
that his client was a man of means, married, and eminently
respectable, but then a detective's idea of respectability is not
always a safe one to go by. Every man is respectable until some one is
hired to prove that he isn't.