“Perhaps there is something I ought to tell you,” she said slowly. “Well, what is it?” “When we were at Folkestone, and you were ill, some one came to see you.” “Go on, go on”--impatiently. “His name was Marcus White.” Westwood made no comment, but his face grew paler. “What he said was a sort of warning. I was to tell you when I pleased--that you had better give up everything--Parliament, the Bar,--father, what does it mean?” She advanced swiftly to the broad table on the other side of which he sat, his eyes bent upon the blotting pad and balancing a paper knife between his fingers. “Won’t you tell me what it means?” she repeated, entreatingly. “It only means that this man is an old enemy of mine, and, it seems, one who does not forgive or forget.” “But is there any reason--any ground? If you never wronged him in any way--father, say you never did!” “No, I never did”--the words were somewhat laboured. “But I married your mother, Aldwyth. That was the cause of quarrel.” “Ah!” she exclaimed; “he spoke of her. Were they to have been married, if you----” “Something of the kind,” he answered, rising, then turning to the window. “It was many years ago; we need not talk of it.” “But he has not forgotten.” “No, it seems he has not forgotten.” “What shall you do?” “I think there is nothing to be done.” He sat again, and drummed on the table with his fingers. “Do you believe this man would really harm you if he could?” “You saw him. You can judge as well as I,” he said, evasively. “He must be mad.” “Mad with the long-nourished passion of hate, mad with the long-cherished desire for revenge--mad in that sense, yes.” “Then God help you, father,” said Aldwyth solemnly. “Yes, God help me,” and he buried his face in his hands. CHAPTER XIX THE LORD MAYOR READS THE RIOT ACT