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And in less than half an hour, Pearl Jane was informed of Mr. Barham’s arrival.

“Send him up,” she said—and sat, wondering.

And then Andrew Barham went up to Pearl Jane’s little sitting room.

She had never seen him before—to her knowledge.

But as soon as she did see him, she divined the truth at once.

“You—you are Tommy!” she said, looking at his blond hair, and gazing straight into his eyes, unhindered now by the large disfiguring glasses.

“Yes, dear—sit down and listen to my story.”

And then in his own simple, straightforward way, Andrew Barham told the girl the history of his double life—the reasons for it—and the closing of it by the tragedy that had come into it.

“Can you ever forgive me?” he asked, looking deep into her wondering eyes.

“I? I have nothing to forgive! You committed no crime against me.”

“I committed no crime at all, dear. I did not kill my wife.”

“But you know who did?”

“I have a suspicion, Pearl Jane, a grave suspicion. I think I do know who killed her. But I cannot tell of it. I cannot bring myself to cast suspicion on one who may, after all, be as innocent as I am myself. First, though, I want to make my peace with you. You don’t resent, then, my deception of you—of you all? It was such a comfort to me to live the studio life—to have the studio friends—oh, little girl, you can never know how awful my home life was!”

“Why, dear? How?”

The gentle sympathy brought it all out in a rush of