It was not until they were seated in the cool, pleasant room, called by Mrs. Desfrayne her own special retreat, that Paul could break the ice.
Mrs. Desfrayne gazed with wonderment at the handsome face of her boy, as he sat on a low chair before her, his eyes cast down, his hands nervously playing with the silken fringe on her dress, so unlike what she had ever known him before.
“Paul,” she said softly, leaning toward him, “you look like a criminal. What is the matter with you?”
The tone was mellow and tender, and yet with a tinge of gentle gaiety.
Paul raised his eyes.
“Like a criminal?” he repeated slowly. “I look like what I am. Oh! my mother—my mother!”
He slipped from the low chair, on his knees, and bowed his face on his mother’s hands. She felt hot tears wet her fingers, and a great terror seized her heart, for she adored her boy.
“Paul,” she whispered, “tell me what has happened!”
CHAPTER XIII.
PAUL DESFRAYNE’S CONFESSION.