CHAPTER XXIX.
As the Duchess had gazed into Maggie's excited, imploring eyes, it had been borne in upon her carefully judging and painfully hesitant mind that there was better than a fifty per cent chance that Larry was right in his estimate of Maggie; that Maggie's inclination toward criminal adventure, her supreme self-confidence, all her bravado, were but the superficial though strong tendencies developed by her unfortunate environment; that within that cynical, worldly shell there were the vital and plastic makings of a real woman.
And so the long-troubled Duchess, who to her acquaintances had always seemed as unemotional as the dust-coated, moth-eaten parrot which stood in mummified aloofness upon her safe, had made a momentous decision that had sent through her old veins the thrilling sap of a great crisis, a great suspense.

She had tried to guide destiny.

She was now through with such endeavor.

She had no right, because of her love for Larry, to withhold longer the facts of Maggie's parentage.

She was now going to tell the truth, and let events work out as they would.
But the events--what were they going to be?
For a moment the Duchess had been impelled to tell the truth straight out to Maggie.