CHAPTER XXII.

Five minutes later he was sitting in his room, with his head bowed within

the circle of his arms, on the table--final attitude of grief and despair.

His tears were flowing fast, and now and then a sob broke upon the

stillness. Presently he said:

I knew her when she was a little child and used to climb about my knees;

I love her as I love my own, and now--oh, poor thing, poor thing, I

cannot bear it!--she's gone and lost her heart to this mangy

materializee! Why didn't we see that that might happen? But how could

we? Nobody could; nobody could ever have dreamed of such a thing. You

couldn't expect a person would fall in love with a wax-work. And this

one doesn't even amount to that."

He went on grieving to himself, and now and then giving voice to his

lamentations.

"It's done, oh, it's done, and there's no help for it, no undoing the

miserable business. If I had the nerve, I would kill it. But that

wouldn't do any good. She loves it; she thinks it's genuine and

authentic. If she lost it she would grieve for it just as she would for

a real person. And who's to break it to the family! Not I--I'll die

first. Sellers is the best human being I ever knew and I wouldn't any

more think of--oh, dear, why it'll break his heart when he finds it out.

And Polly's too. This comes of meddling with such infernal matters!

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The American Claimant