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bound to descend through her, and thinking that her father would keep her well supplied with money. But he did not; and she would not ask; and Ste. Croix only got an empty satisfaction from depositing the birth certificate of his small son, together with one or two other documents, with her solicitors in London. They represented future gain, but the future was rather dim, and he was a gentleman of a material mind. As the years went on Gaston Ste. Croix decided that Antoine was an asset of, at best, doubtful value, and at present decidedly in the way. Not that he was particular as to where he took his son—Antoine had seen ugly things in the last two or three years, and perhaps worse before his mother died. It is astonishing how early a child can understand–and Antoine knew that it was not for love that Gaston took him about. It is doubtful if Gaston Ste. Croix had ever loved anyone but himself to any extent worth considering.

Gaston having decided to get rid of Antoine, his method was characteristic. He did it at once with the least possible trouble to himself. It would have made no difference to him if the boy had had not one friend in Paris. As a matter of fact, he did have one friend—George Derwent—who was a friend, in spite of the sixteen years’ difference in their ages. And that same evening George Derwent found Antoine hunched up on one of the uncomfortable red leather lounges of the vestibule, staring into space, with his child-mouth set in a hard line.

“What’s up, old man?”

Antoine did not turn his head as he spoke, evidently following his own line of thought.

“What do you do when you’re ten?”

“What do you do? What are you driving at?”

“What do you—do—when you’re ten? What can you—when you’re only ten years old—to make a living?”

“Well, I’m blessed! You’re a funny kid. You don’t