Theresa was watching him, pity and love smoldering in her soft, dark eyes. “A few weeks since,” Hamilton went on, “I had never seen or even heard of you. For five years I have lived in this cottage, a recluse who hates and fears the world beyond. I see surprise in your face, and I will explain. By profession I am a doctor, but it is long since I practiced the healing art until you crossed my path, and Theresa and I have lived upon the scanty earnings of my pen. When this has failed me, and we have been pressed for money, it has been comparatively easy to make up our deficiencies by playing and singing before the houses of the wealthy. In this way we came to Annesley Park. Do you remember?” “No, sir; I do not.” There was not the faintest hesitation in Sir Harold’s tones. “Well, my daughter’s singing attracted your attention,” went on John Hamilton, “and you were free with your money. You appeared to be in great trouble, and I pitied you from the bottom of my heart, though I resented your offer of further money a little later.” “I am sorry,” faltered Sir Harold, and Hamilton smiled faintly. “You entered the same train with us, and I did not think of you again until I saw you lying insensible some thirty yards beyond the platform of Tenterden railway station.” “Extraordinary!” murmured Sir Harold, pressing his hands to his brow. A sharp spasm of pain shot through his head, and he added: “No, no! I will not try to remember. I feel dazed and bewildered. I do not wish to remember.” “My duty was clear,” continued Hamilton. “I ought to have sent to Annesley Park at once, but I was afraid for myself--I was afraid for Theresa, because the story would have got into the papers. I thought that I would cure you, exact from you a promise of secrecy, and send you away; but now I know not what to do.” “What is this fear that you have concerning yourself?” asked Sir Harold; but he did not press the question when he met the appealing glance of the old man. “Some day,” Hamilton whispered in his ear, “I will tell you. It affects my darling child even more than myself. Her life, if not mine, is in danger.” There was silence for a few minutes; then the old man went on: “When you had been here a little while, Sir Harold, I read in the papers something of your trouble. I had not bought a newspaper for years, but I was anxious to see what they had to say about you--to learn if there was even a suspicion concerning your whereabouts.” “Yes; go on with this extraordinary story, Mr. Hamilton. I am interested because it concerns myself, not that I have any knowledge of one hour of my past.” “I will tell you everything, and then you shall decide upon your future course. You were engaged to be married, Sir Harold, to one of the highest ladies in the land--to Lady Elaine, the daughter of the Earl of Seabright.” He looked keenly at the young baronet, and only saw a puzzled smile, that deepened into one of incredulity.