Behind them, from the bed in the corner, a feeble voice called: "Who's there ?" "In the name of God," said the boy gravely, for he saw a hollow-eyed specter staring toward him from the bed in the corner, "let me pass! I am his son!" It was not that which made them give back, but a shrill, faint cry of triumph from the sick man toward which they turned.

Pierre slipped past them and stood above Martin Ryder.

He was wasted beyond belief--only the monster hand showed what he had been.
"Son ?" he queried with yearning and uncertainty.
"Pierre, your son." And he slipped to his knees beside the bed.

The heavy hand fell upon his hair and stroked it.
"There ain't no ways of doubting it.

It's red silk, like the hair of Irene.