I made him leave the house. Before I could make plans what to do,
he came back mad with drink. I went for Bobby, to get out of the house,
but he caught hold of me. I struck him in the face, and he threw me
against the edge of the open door. It made the scar."

Foyle's face was white. "Why did you never write and tell me that, Jo?
You know that I--" He stopped suddenly.

"You had gone out of our lives down there. I didn't know where you were
for a long time; and then--then it was all right about Bobby and me,
except that Bobby didn't get the money that was his. But now--"

Foyle's voice was hoarse and low. "He made that scar, and he--and you
only sixteen--Oh, my God!" Suddenly his face reddened, and he choked
with shame and anger. "And he's my brother!" was all that he could say.

"Do you see him up here ever?" she asked pityingly.

"I never saw him till a week ago." A moment, then he added: "The letter
wasn't to be sent here in his own name, was it?"

She nodded. "Yes, in his own name, Dorland W. Foyle. Didn't he go by
that name when you saw him?"

There was an oppressive silence, in which she saw that something moved
him strangely, and then he answered: "No, he was going by the name of
Halbeck--Hiram Halbeck."

The girl gasped. Then the whole thing burst upon her. "Hiram Halbeck!
Hiram Halbeck, the thief--I read it all in the papers--the thief that you