“My boy!” he murmured over and over again; “my boy.” But he did not kiss Billy just then.
There was no doubt in Truedale’s mind, now, as to where he would find Lynda. Quietly he went downstairs and into the dim library. The fire was out upon the hearth. The gray ashes gave no sign of life. The ticking of the clock was cruelly loud; and there, beside the low, empty chair, knelt Lynda—her white dress falling about her in motionless folds.
Truedale, without premeditation, crossed the room and, sitting in his uncle’s chair—the long-empty chair, lifted Lynda’s face and held it in his hand.
“Lyn,” he said, fixing his dark, troubled eyes upon hers, “Lyn, who is Ann’s father?”
Lynda had not been crying; her eyes were dry and—faithful!
“You, Con,” she said, quietly.
During the past years had Lynda ever permitted herself to imagine how Conning would meet this hour she could not have asked more than now he gave. He was ready, she saw that, to assume whatever was his to bear. His face whitened; his mouth twitched as the truth of what he heard sunk into his soul; but his gaze never fell from that which was raised to his.
“Can you—tell me all about it, Lyn?” he asked.
For an instant Lynda hesitated. Misunderstanding, Truedale added:
“Perhaps you’d rather not to-night! I can wait. I trust you absolutely. I am sure you acted wisely.”