Alice lay patiently. It was done, then. Her punishment was ended; she was to see her son for once—only for once.

"My dear," she said, "my dream will come true. I shall see my son—to call him my son—for once—only for once. And then? But there will be nothing left."

Dick came bursting in. "I've drawn up the case, and I've got the advertisements ready. If by this time to-morrow the doctor makes no sign, I shall act. Here's the case."

He drew out a document in foolscap, tied with red tape—a most imposing document. "And here are the letters—

"I hope he'll like that," said Dick, rubbing his hands. "And here is the second letter—

"I hope he will like that," said Dick. "And here is the advertisement—

"I hope he will like that."

"There is something more for you," said Molly. "Lady Woodroffe confesses. There is the paper."

"Confesses?" Dick snatched the paper, and read it through with a hunter's sense of disappointment. "Well," he said, "I thought better of her. I thought she would die game. Never trust appearances. Well, this changes these matters. Instead of sending the letters and the advertisement, I shall now go myself with the case and the confession, and bring him to his——"

"No, Dick," said Molly. "There is to be no shame for him, and no humiliation."

"What?"

"No shame for him at all. He is to be left in ignorance unless he has guessed anything. We shall tell him nothing. All will go on as before."

"Oh, Molly! have we given in? With victory assured? Don't say that!"

"You don't understand, Dick. Everything is changed. It is now Lady Woodroffe who would spare him nothing. It is his mother who would save him from everything."

Dick looked at the pale woman lying on the sofa. Then he understood, and a tear stood in his eye. 'Twas a tender heart. He went over to the sofa and kissed her forehead.

"Forgive me," he said.

"Oh, Dick!" she murmured. "Would to God you were my son! As for him, he is what they have made him."

They had made him grumpy and obstinate. At that moment the doctor was urging upon him compliance with a simple thing.

"You want me to go to the rooms of the gardener man who insulted me? I am to listen to some rubbish about his wife. What do I care about his wife? I tell you, Sir Robert, this is trifling. I won't go, there; tell them so. I won't go."

"Then, Sir Humphrey, I tell you plainly, Ruin stares you in the face. Yes; the loss of everything in this world that you value—everything. You will lose all. I cannot explain what this means. But you will have letters to-morrow which will change your whole life—and all your thoughts. They mean, I say, the loss of everything that you value."

"I don't believe a word——"

"You wanted to know what Mr. Haveril meant, what your mother meant, what Miss Molly Pennefather meant. They meant Ruin—Ruin, and loss of everything, Sir Humphrey—that and nothing else."

"Tell me more. Tell me why."

"I shall tell you no more. I shall leave it to your—to Richard Woodroffe, whom you love so well. He will tell you."

The young man hesitated. "What do you want me to do?"

"You are to come with me to Mrs. Haveril's rooms; she will receive you; she will make a communication to you. Whatever she says you are to receive with courtesy—with courtesy, mind. That done, you may return, and everything will go on as usual. You can then forget what you heard. Are you ready? Very well."

"If that cad, the fiddler, is there——"

"Hark ye, Sir Humphrey, if you behave or speak like a cub and a cur, I throw you over. By the Lord! I will have no mercy upon you. I will tell you myself what it all means. Now!"

Molly waited, sitting beside Alice, who lay with closed eyes. Perhaps she slept. Presently John Haveril came home. Molly told him what had happened.

"Ay, ay," he said. "Let him come. Let Alice have her say. They've made a cur of him between them. Let him come."

He sat down beside his wife, and whispered words of consolation and of soothing. They would go home again—out of the atmosphere of deception. They would be happy once more in their own home on the Pacific slope.

"John," said Alice, "it was good of you to bring me over on the strength of a dream, and a promise of a dream—to give over all your work——"

"Nay, nay, lass. What is work compared with thee?"

"I shall see my son again. I have prayed for that. I did not pray, John—I could not—for his love—that was gone. Yet I hoped. Now I must be satisfied only to take his hands in mine."

"We will go home again—we will go home again."

"My dream said nothing about going home again." She was silent for a while. "John," she said, "what was it you were going to tell Molly and Dick?"

They were all three standing over her.

"Why," said John, "Alice had a fancy—because she loves you both—to see you join hands—so."

Alice laid her thin hands across their joined hands, and her lips moved.

"And I was to tell you both that I would not give you a single dollar out of all the pile. You are happier without, she says. And so do I," he added.

It was a strange betrothal, with tears in the eyes of both.

At that moment arrived the doctor, with Humphrey. The young man looked dark and lowering; his cheek was flushed. He glanced round the room, bowed low to Alice, recognized Molly by a cold inclination, Mr. Haveril by a nod, and Dick by a blank stare, which did not recognize even his existence—the frequent employment of this mode of salutation had made him greatly beloved by all outsiders.

"Ah," thought Dick, "if you knew what I've got in my pocket, you'd change that look."

"Mrs. Haveril," said Sir Robert, "I have brought you Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, at your request. I believe you have something to say to him."

"Molly dear, give Sir Humphrey a chair near me—so. I want to tell you, Sir Humphrey, of a very strange dream, if I may call it—a hallucination."

"You may, madam," said the doctor, for the young man sat down in silence.

"Which has, I fear, given your mother a great deal of annoyance. I am, unfortunately, too weak at present to call upon her, or to explain to her. Therefore I have ventured to ask you to be so very kind as to come here, so that I may send a message to Lady Woodroffe."

"I am here," said Sir Humphrey, ungraciously.

"I will not take up much of your time. I had an illness in America which touched my brain, I believe. I imagined that a child which I lost twenty-four years ago was still living. He was the son of my first husband, whose name was Woodroffe. He was also the father of Richard Woodroffe here. More than that, I fancied that one person was that child. That person was yourself. I fancied that you were the child. I had not lost it by death. I surrendered it to a lady by adoption."

Humphrey started. He changed colour. He sat up in his chair. He listened eagerly. His lip trembled.

"He understands," Molly whispered.

"No; he begins to understand what was meant," Dick returned. "He cannot guess the whole."

Yes; he understood now that he was face to face with a great danger. Many things became plain to him—Molly's words, John Haveril's words, Sir Robert's words.

He understood the nature of the danger. He listened, while a horrible terror seized him at the mere prospect of that danger. He heard the rest with a sense of relief, equalled only by his sense of the danger.

Alice went on. "I first saw you at the theatre one night. You were so much like my husband that I concluded that you must be my son. I met you at Sir Robert's. I became certain that you were my son. We made inquiries. Please tell him, Sir Robert."

"These inquiries," said the doctor, "proved certain things which were curious and interesting. I may confess that they seemed to point in your direction. This lady became too hastily convinced that they did so. She is now as firmly convinced that they did not."

Humphrey sighed deeply.

"It was an awkward case," Sir Robert went on—"one that required tact."

"I gave a great deal of trouble"—Alice took up the wondrous tale again.

"But it is all over now," the doctor added. "Do not talk too much."

"Yes, all over. My bodily frame is weak, but my mind is clear again. Now, Sir Humphrey, I wish you, if you will be so kind, to go to Lady Woodroffe, and tell her from me that the hallucination has passed away, and give her my regrets that I disturbed her. Sir Robert will perhaps go with you, to make the explanation clearer, because he knows all the details."

"I will certainly call upon Lady Woodroffe this evening," said the doctor. "Indeed, Sir Humphrey is ignorant of certain facts connected with the case which will probably incline Lady Woodroffe to forgive and excuse the more readily."

"Will you do this, Sir Humphrey?" asked Mrs. Haveril.

"Yes, if that's all," he replied hoarsely. "Is that all? Was it, as you say, hallucination? Are you quite certain?"

The doctor felt his patient's pulse. "All hallucination," he replied. "Now, please finish this interview as soon as you can."

"I want Sir Humphrey to give me his own forgiveness."

"If there were anything to forgive."

"Since there is nothing," said the doctor, sternly, "you can even more readily go through the form."

"Well, if you wish it."

Humphrey held out his hand.

"Tell her, man," said the doctor, impatiently—"tell her what she wants."

"Since you desire it"—Humphrey obeyed, coldly and reluctantly—"I forgive you. Will that do?"

Alice raised her head; she pushed back her hair with her left hand. Molly held her up. She gazed upon her son's face; it was cold and hard and pitiless. She stooped over her son's hand; it was cold and hard, and seemed as pitiless as his face—there was no warmth nor impression in the hand. She bent her head and kissed it. Her tears fell upon it—her silent tears. Humphrey withdrew his hand. He looked round, as if asking what next.

Dick went to the door, and pointed to the stairs, holding the door open.

Alice lay back on the pillow. The doctor took her wrist again.

"Doctor," she whispered, "I have never wholly lost my boy till now."

Her eyes closed. Her cheek grew white.

The doctor laid down her hand. "Never," he said, "till now."

THE END.

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