“My son’s room!” Franklin Mills had said carelessly as he turned away. The phrase still rang in Bruce’s ears. Mills could not know; he could not even suspect! No man would be callous enough to make such a remark if he believed he was uttering it to an unrecognized child of his own blood.
Bruce laved his face and brushed his hair and went down the hall to the library where Mills had taken him on the memorable night they met in the storm. The portrait which had so disturbed Mills still hung in its place. Bruce turned his back on it and took up the evening newspapers.
A maid appeared to say that Mr. Mills was answering a long-distance call, but would be free in a moment; and a little later the butler came in with a tray and began concocting a cocktail. While this was in preparation a low whistle from the door caused Bruce to glance round. Leila was peering at him, her head alone being visible.
“I thought you were a burglar!” she whispered.
Bruce pointed to the servant, who was solemnly manipulating the shaker, and beckoned her to enter.
“Briggs! You lied to me again!” she said severely as she swept into the room. “You told me there wasn’t a drop in the house!”
“It was the truth, Miss Leila, when I told you,” the man replied gravely. “A friend of Mr. Mills left this at the door this morning.”
“I don’t believe it! It was more likely a friend of mine. I say, little one, how do I look?”
“Queenly,” Bruce replied. “If you were more beautiful my eyes couldn’t bear it.”
“Cut it! Am I really all right?”