“What the real end will be one can only guess,” replied Mr. Miller. “The end, so far as this episode of her life is concerned, began by a brutal killing of my little granddaughter’s dog, quite the most dreadful scene I ever witnessed, and ended by her leaving the hotel in the company of a man, who for her sake forgot the daughter whom he loved with a most unusual affection and, blinded by the power of this creature’s animal sex appeal, made himself a laughing stock to his acquaintances and a sorrow to his friends. The father disgraced in his old age, the dupe of this girl who was but little older than the daughter he left ashamed and heart-broken. Two men, one a young life-guard, the other the fellow with whom she left her home, each of them she left with good cause to remember her, and left with a poorer opinion of the world and a bitterness against all women that will in the end help on the evil she created in their hearts. To my little grandchild she brought her first knowledge of the wickedness of the world. To all whom she met she brought a sorrow; upon all whom she left she left a trace of her own unworthiness.”
“This is horrible, Mr. Miller,” exclaimed Dr. Crossett. “Who was this woman?”
“Her name,” replied Mr. Miller, “was Lola Barnhelm! Doctor!” He sprang to his feet as he saw the look on Dr. Crossett’s face. “Doctor!”
“All right, sir, I—I beg your pardon.”
Dr. Crossett slowly poured himself a glass of brandy from the small decanter on the table and raised it to his lips with a hand that trembled visibly. “I—I am not quite myself to-night, sir,” he continued; “I am going to ask you to excuse me. Gentlemen.” He rose, a little unsteadily, and stood looking about him at the smiling faces that turned to him. “Gentlemen,” he repeated, “I find that I must leave you. Will you pardon my lack of formality and allow me to say good night?”
He left the room, refusing the many anxious offers of company, for he was a rarely popular man, and there was something in the gray pallor of his face that told them that he was suffering, and jumping into a cab he gave the address of his apartment. During his long drive across Paris, for he lived at the further end of the Boulevard St. Germain, he sat motionless, struck dumb with the horror of the thing he had heard.
“Lola! Lola! Her mother.” He could see them both until the tears blinded his eyes. “That she should come to this. Lola, to her child, the child that might have been his! Great God!” As he unlocked the door of his private hall his man came out to meet him.
“A letter, Doctor, marked important.”
“Very well, Louis; you need not wait.”
He went slowly into his study, and was about to drop the letter carelessly on the table as the New York post-mark caught his eye. He looked again; the envelope was addressed in what looked like a child’s unformed handwriting. He opened it.