message to me. Will you, in turn, kindly take a message from me to Richard Malleson?"
"With—with pleasure, Mrs. Bradley." But he spoke hesitatingly. There was a ring in her voice, a certain rising inflection that gave him a sense of uneasiness. It seemed to sound a vague alarm.
"Thank you! It is very appropriate to send the message by you, because, I believe, you are his son."
"Very true. I am his son."
His eyes were fixed on hers in open, frank, involuntary admiration. She saw his soul as plainly as though it had lain mapped and lettered before her.
"You—are—his son," she repeated slowly.
The lids again half veiled her eyes. The hard lines on her lips relaxed. She put her hand up against her heart as though she were stifled by some sudden and overwhelming emotion. A chair stood by her and she dropped into it and began to pass her fingers absent-mindedly across her forehead.
Barry was alarmed. He had noticed the quickened breathing, and the sudden pallor that had come into her face, and he feared that she was ill.
"Shall I call some one?" he said.
"Thank you, no. It was just a passing weakness. I've been on my feet a good deal and lost a good deal of sleep lately. Won't you please be seated?"
"No, I guess not. I won't trespass any longer on your time and strength. If you'll sign this voucher I'll go."
"Please be seated for a moment. There's something I want to tell you."
If there was any longer any wrath in her soul, her face did not show it, her voice did not indicate it. She looked up at him appealingly, with big and tender eyes. He could no more have refused her invitation to be seated than he could have refused to draw his next breath.
"It is very kind of you—and of your father—to
