"I wrote to the Governor of the prison," said Cynthia, "and told him that I had only just discovered--having been such a child--that I could write to my father or see him at regular intervals, and that I should like to do so from time to time. He asked me in return how it was that an intimation--which had been forwarded, I believe, to certain persons interested in my welfare--of my father's fate had not been given to me. My father had, by a desperate effort, succeeded in escaping from Portland; he had never been recaptured; and, from certain information received, the authorities believed that he was dead. He added however that he had a shrewd suspicion that Andrew Westwood had thrown dust into the eyes of the police, had left the country, and was not dead at all." "And begged you to communicate with the authorities if you heard from him, I suppose?" "No; he did not go so far as that to the man's own daughter," said Cynthia calmly. "And it would, of course, have been useless if he had." "Why--why?" "Because," said the girl, her lips suddenly trembling and her eyes filling with tears--"because I love my father, and would do anything in the world for him--if he would let me. Can you not tell me where he is? I would give all I have to see him once again!" Reuben Dare fidgeted in his chair, and half turned his face away. Then, without meeting her eager tearful eyes, he replied half sullenly-- "The Governor was right. He got away--away to America." "Oh, then he is living still? He is well?" "Oh, yes--he's living, and well enough! He hasn't done so badly neither. He got some land and 'struck ile,' as they say in America; and living under another name, and nobody knowing anything about him--he--well, he's had fair luck." "And you come from him--you are a friend of his? Did he want to hear of me?" "Yes, missy, he did. But he would scarce ha' known you if he'd met you in the street--you, grown so tall and handsome and dressed so fine. It was your name as gave him the clue--'Cynthia'--'Cynthia West'; for he read in the papers as you were singing at concerts, and he says to himself, 'Why, that's my gal, sure enough; and she hain't forgotten her mother's name!'" "Go on!" said Cynthia quickly. "Go on? What do you mean?" asked Reuben Dare, a little suspiciously. "There's nothing more to say, is there? And he asked me to make inquiries while I was in England--that was all."