"Maybe you're right," he said, "and maybe wrong. I've seen rough deeds done in my day, and never lifted a hand to interfere. I won't deny but what I did lie in wait for Mr. Vane that very afternoon--but with no thought of murder in my mind. I meant to tell him what my opinion was of him and of his doings; for there was carryings-on that I didn't approve of, and it's my belief that in those very carryings-on lies the key of the mystery. I've thought it all out in prison, slow-like--at nights when I lay in bed, and days when I was hewing stone. I won't tell you the story, my pretty; it ain't fit for the likes of you. But there was a woman mixed up in it; and, if there was any man who had rights over the woman--sweetheart or husband, brother or father, or such-like--it's in that quarter that you and me should look for the real murderer of Sydney Vane." "Can't we do anything, father? Won't you tell me the whole story?" "Not now, my girl; I must be going." "Where are you going, father? Will you be in a safe place?" "Quite safe, my dear--quite safe! Nobody would know me in this guise, would they? I'm at No. 119 Isabella Street, Camden Town--quite a little out-o'-the-way place--just the sort to suit a quiet respectable-looking man like me." He gave vent to a grim little chuckle as he went on. "They don't know who they've got hold of, do they? Maybe they wouldn't be quite so pleased if they did." "May I come and see you there, father?" "Well, my girl, I think not. Such a--a splendid-looking sort of a party as you've turned out coming to visit me would make people talk. And we don't want people to talk, do we? Isn't there any quiet spot where you and me could meet and walk about a bit? Kensington Gardens; maybe, or Regent's Park?" Cynthia thought that Kensington Gardens would be quiet enough in the morning for their purpose, and it was agreed that they should meet there the next day at noon. Westwood's disguise was so perfect that he did not attempt to seclude himself during the day. "And then," he said, "we can talk about you coming over to Ameriky, and living happy and quiet somewhere with me." "Oh, I can't leave England!" said Cynthia, with a sudden little gasp. "Don't ask me, father; I can't possibly go away." He looked at her keenly and scrutinisingly for a moment, and then he said-- "That means that you've got a reason for wanting to stop in England. That means that you've got a sweetheart--a lover, my pretty--and that you won't leave him. I know the ways of women well enough. I don't want to force you, my girl; but I hope that he's worthy of the woman you've grown to be. Tell me his name." CHAPTER XXIX.