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 have told you long ago." He drew a deep breath. "I don't know who my father was," he announced abruptly.

Dunbar's expression did not change. He stood perfectly still for some moments, as if waiting for Beauling to continue.

"Well?" he said, after a time.

Beauling's eyebrows went up, and he breathed shortly.

"I learned that some time ago," said Dunbar, in a measured voice, "At least," he specified, "a Mr. Rankin of Connecticut, who knew something of your early history, led me to suppose that such was probably the case."

Beauling clenched and unclenched his hands.

"And, in addition to the other things you have done for me," he said, "you didn't let that make any difference!"

"At the time I was told," said Dunbar, "we had learned to like you and believe in you. I won't say it didn't make a difference for a time—but that passed. And, of course, I could not be sure, un-