chuckle, "I know," he said, "I know." And after a brief pause: "Rose is in love," he announced obliquely.
The girl half-started from her chair, but with visible effort controlled herself.
"Oh, I know—I know!" the father continued. "I am a prisoner of this living tomb; but all things I should know—somehow—in time—I come to know."
"It's true—that Englishman last year—what's his name?—Law, Alan Law."
"In the main," the father corrected, "you are right. Only he's not English. His father was Wellington Law, the banker."
She knew better than to interrupt, but her seeming patience was belied by the whitening knuckles of a hand that lay within the little pool of blood-red light.
Presently the deep voice rolled on: "Law and I were once friends; then—we loved one woman, your mother. I won her—all but her heart: too late she realized it was Law she loved. He never forgave me, nor I him. Though he married another woman, still he held from me the love of my wife. I could not sleep for hating him—and he was no better off. Each sought the other's ruin; it came to be an open duel between us in Wall Street. One of us had to fail—and I held the stronger hand. The night before the day that was to have seen my triumph I walked in Central Park, as was my habit, to tire my body
