If this were so, why had she betrayed the emotions which Philip was sure he had seen?
A chaotic tangle of questions and of doubts rushed through his mind.
John Adare alone had acted a natural and unrestrained part in the brief space that had intervened since his home-coming.

Philip had looked upon the big man's love and happiness, his worship of the woman who was his wife, his ecstasy over the baby, his affection for Josephine, and it seemed to him that he KNEW this man now.

The few moments he had stood in the room with mother and daughter had puzzled him most.

In their faces he had seen no sign of gladness at their reunion, and he asked himself if Josephine had told him all the truth--if her mother were not, after all, a partner to her secret.
And then there swept upon him in all its overwhelming cloud of mystery that other question which until now he had not dared to ask himself: HAD JOSEPHINE HERSELF TOLD HIM ALL THE TRUTH?
He did not dare to tell himself that it was possible that she was NOT the mother of the child which she had told him was her own.

And yet he could not kill the whispering doubt deep back in his brain.