Release me. Now. Or I will." "You would do better to come with me than against me," said Fenton quietly. "You don't know much about me, but you have met me, and you know my men are behind me. It will be a cold day if they let go at you before I say so. Besides, I should like to have a little talk with you about your uncle. Get up, Mr. Deane." The other hesitated. His glance flickered from Fenton's face to his right hand. Something about it seemed familiar. The next instant it was gone. "I have no desire to talk with you, Mr. Fenton," said Deane quietly. "This has all been a dream to me. I think I should like to be alone for a little. I am all right. I will go with you." "Oh, do," urged Deane. "Don't mind what I said. I am feeling dizzy now. I shall be all right in a little. You don't mind if I wander a little, do you?" "Not a bit," said Fenton, rather amused. "Go ahead; I'll have the door locked. There will be none to bother you, you know." Deane obeyed. He opened the door and closed it quietly behind him. Then, turning, he walked slowly back the way he had come, a picture of wretchedness and utter helplessness. For he had but a dim idea of the way. At the first corner he turned and set his face in the direction of the park; and he did not dare stop, because, in a great gully of the rocky hill, he could see two figures watching him. They were keeping their distance; and at the moment that Deane turned, they disappeared behind the farther corner of the mansion. He was now very near the gate. In another minute he had reached the place where he had stood when Fenton saw him. At a single glance he took in the situation. There was no room for hesitation. There was no longer a hope of escape. In his desperation he would have gone back; but Fenton was close upon him. "Mr. Deane," he said, "I think I'll keep you company." Deane turned quickly, and saw the muzzle of a revolver in Fenton's hand. A cry broke from his lips, and he fell down on his knees. Fenton stood over him, laughing softly. "Why, you don't seem as badly frightened as I thought you were, Mr. Deane," he said. "If I had not been quite sure of you I would not have troubled myself to come down. You've found out now who was more afraid of the ghosts." In his great anxiety Deane seemed to have forgotten his own peril; but Fenton noticed it, and he laughed softly again. "All I've got to say, Mr. Deane," he said, "is that I reckon you didn't think the old man was so bad a man as he was. No man who is in business with the gang can help a little out-of-door business now and then, especially if he keeps no account of it, and pays for it with all the money he gets for doings the same. I was quite right, Mr. Deane, when I said he looked as if he had been up to the house." "Oh, my God!" thought Deane, "who was that? I must find him. I must speak to him. I must get to him. Have I broken his heart? Have I broken mine? God grant he may never know." "How did you find it out?" he asked, "You did not come with me." "Well, I know you did not tell it to me," said Fenton, "and I wasn't going to be out of your sight long, you know." "Ah!" he replied. "Then you saw the paper in your room. I thought you did. Why do you come so far out of your way?" "Well, that didn't happen to be my way," said Fenton, and with a hollow-sounding laugh he looked down at the prostrate man. "That did not happen to be my way at all," he said, and then added in a tone that had become more genial, "I wonder if you will call me by name if you get a chance." "No," said Deane, "and I don't want you to call me by name; not when I am going to ask you a question which I have heard you deny so many times already. You say you did not know the man's name." Fenton laughed as if amused at something. "We are all sure the other has a bad memory," he said; "but then, I am not sure, after all." "Well, you can read it, anyhow," said Deane; "they told me so." Fenton nodded as if in approval. "Yes," he said, "I can read it. I didn't fancy I would be able to read it, but, as you say, I got it up in a court, or else I couldn't have got to know anything of it. How much did you pay for that article, now?" "Ah," said Deane; "there you are again. How much?" "Yes, how much?" he reiterated. "Well, only two or three dollars at the outside." Fenton laughed louder than before, and Deane could see that his white teeth gleamed. "Well," he said, "that accounts for what I always said, that you were a great hand at keeping money at interest. It don't pay to try to keep money. You may make five, ten, twenty per cent.; but, if you don't spend it, you are always losing more than you win. Why, it's a good thing to have your name down for six or seven per cent., and the more you make it for, the more you make." "So it is," thought Deane. "I thought so. Now we shall know. God grant he may never know." "And what's that?" asked Fenton. "It's the way you are making it," said Deane. "Then you do not take my meaning," said Fenton, turning on him sharply. "Let's try again. You came to stay at my mother's, did you not? At her brother's house. Well, you ran away after you were asleep, but, whether it was your own doing or whether you were kidnapped--I'll say you were-- who do you suppose got your name down for seven per cent.? Who, do you think?" Deane shook his head. Fenton stood looking at him for a little, and then sprang forward. "My father." "And you were his son?" said Deane, looking up at Fenton with an almost piteous look. "That old man, when I left the house, would not have known who I was, but I--I--know what he meant to my mother. I am sure of that." "You do not mean to tell me," said Fenton, smiling, "that you did not tell me a pretty fair lie for a man who seemed to know a little about yourself, when you told me you were an Englishman and had no relations?" "I did not do it to gain your assistance," said Deane. "I did it from necessity. There was no one else. My uncle was always in trouble and torture, and I could not help him. So I said I was his son." "Oh, yes, it does not pay to tell truth. That old proverb is true. People don't believe a man when he tells the truth." "But what is the use of any of this talking?" said Deane. "Now that I know who it was, it is easy enough to find him. He is somewhere in Portland or Salem. I can find him as easily as I can find my own uncle." "No," said Fenton, "it won't be so easy to find him as you think. No one has ever been able to do so since he was in the States, and you would not be likely to take the trouble to hunt him up." "He has my father's name," said Deane. "That will find him." "Ah," said Fenton, "but do you know what has been done with him? Do you know what people do when