far corner of the room, in a dark doorway, stood a shadow. The click was
that of a trigger.

Quick as thought de Vasselot ran to the window, snatched at the opening,
opened it, threw back the shutter, and was round again with bright and
flashing eyes facing the doorway. A man stood there watching him--a man
of his own build, slight and quick, with close upright hair like his own,
but it was white; with a neat upturned moustache like his own, but it was
white; with a small quick face like his own, but it was bleached. The
eyes that flashed back were dark like his own.

"You are a de Vasselot," said this man, quickly.

"Are you Lory de Vasselot?"

"Yes."

"Then I am your father."

"Yes," said Lory, slowly; "there is no mistaking it."




CHAPTER VIII.


AT VASSELOT.

"The life unlived, the deed undone, the tear unshed ... not judging