"Very creditable of you, I'm sure," said Beaumont, with a sneer, "and what did you do?"

"I invented a story that I had been in the service of the child's parents, who had afterwards gone to France and died there. I said I was the child's nurse, and placed him in the care of Doctor Larcher to be brought up. What little money I could spare out of my salary as housekeeper was given to the vicar as money left to the child by his father, and to this day the vicar does not suspect the truth."

"Quite a romance," said Beaumont, lightly. "I had no idea you had such inventive powers. But there is one thing I would like to know--the child's name."

"In order to claim him?" she asked, bitterly.

"My faith! no; I've got enough to do in looking after myself, without troubling about a hulking boy. You need never be afraid of that, Patience. Come, tell me the boy's name."

"Reginald Blake."

The cigarette dropped out of Beaumont's nerveless fingers, and his white face grew a shade whiter.

"Reginald Blake," he whispered under his breath; "the young fellow who sings?"

"The same."

Beaumont remained silent for a few moments, thinking deeply.

"I have certainly no reason to be ashamed of my son," he said, coolly, looking at Patience. "You deserve credit for the way you have brought him up."

"I have done so as some expiation for my sin."

"Bah! Don't be melodramatic!" he said, coarsely. "You brought him up because he was your son--not because of any expiation rubbish! He doesn't know who he is?"

"No. I have spared him that knowledge of shame; let us bear our sin alone."

"Humbug! our sin, as you call it, doesn't trouble me in the slightest. In fact, I'm rather pleased than otherwise."

"What do you mean?" she asked in alarm.

"Mean--that he's got an uncommonly fine tenor voice, and I don't see why money shouldn't be made out of it."

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