"Guy Kenyon," he muttered, harshly, his bent form shaking visibly; "I would sooner cut off my right hand than tell Guy Kenyon's son what he once was to me. I had never thought of such a thing as learning to care for Guy Kenyon's boy. But somehow my heart is melting. I must be in my dotage, for I find my long-cherished hatred growing less bitter, and revenge does not seem one half so sweet and desirable as it once did. The time was when revenge was the only object for which I existed. Can that time be passing now? Am I growing weak and foolish as I grow old? There! Some one is ringing the door-bell. I wonder who it is?"
Simons made haste to admit the visitor, while Bernard Dane went slowly into the library. A woman closely veiled entered, and was shown into the reception-room—a woman dressed in black, and who spoke in a low, hurried tone to the servant. She inquired for Mrs. Lynne.
"Tell her that her sister, Mrs. Ray, wishes to see her," she said.
The words reached old Bernard Dane's ears, and a frown knit his brows.
"It is Celia!" he muttered, his face growing deathly pale; and he grasped the arm of a chair which stood near. "Celia Ray! After all those years she ventures to come here! I wish I could unravel the mystery which lies hidden in the past, for that there is something hidden—something wrong—I am certain."
He left the library and made his way straight to the reception-room. The woman was standing at a window, gazing out upon the green lawn, starred with gorgeous flower-beds even at this season of the year.
At sound of the closing of the door, she turned swiftly, but as her eyes fell upon Bernard Dane's face she uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Bernard!" she cried, and her voice trembled perceptibly. "I did not expect to see you."
He bowed low, extending his hand.