She covered her face with her hands. "It--it--must come," she faltered. "I do not lay claim," he continued, "to any remarkable amount of insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your present cause of distress." "You are wonderful!" she murmured. He smiled complacently. "Not at all. This is simply a chapter of coincidences. Now what I want you to feel is this. I want you to feel that you have found a friend who has a strong desire to be of service to you. Treat me as an elder brother, if you like. He is here by your side. How can he help you?" She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpet-merchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Perhaps the Parisian atmosphere had affected him. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. "I hope you realize," he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, "that I am in earnest--very much in earnest. You must let me do whatever I can for you. I shall count it a privilege." "I believe you," she murmured. "I trust you altogether. I am going to take you entirely at your word. I want to leave Paris to-day. Will you lend me the money for my ticket to London?" "With all the pleasure in the world," he answered heartily. "Let me add too that I am thankful for your decision. You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope." She nodded. "There is my aunt," she said. "The one who used to live at Lyndmore. She will take me in until I can make some plans. It will be horribly dull, and she is a very trying person. But anything is better than this." He took out his watch. "Let me see," he said. "Your best route will be via Boulogne and Folkestone at nine o'clock from the Gare du Nord. What about your luggage?" "I could get a few of my things, at any rate," she said. "My sister is sure to be out." "Very well," he said. "It is just six o'clock now. Supposing you fetch what you can, and if you will allow me, I will see you off. It would give me great pleasure if you would dine with me somewhere first." She looked at him wistfully, but with some unwilling doubt in her wrinkled forehead. It was excellently done, especially as she loved good dinners. "You are very kind to think of it," she said, "but--don't you think perhaps--that I had better not?" He smiled indulgently. "My dear child," he said, "with me you need have no apprehension. I am almost old enough to be your father." She looked at him with uplifted eyebrows--a look of whimsical incredulity. Sir John felt that after all forty-five was not so very old. "That sounds quite absurd," she answered. "Yet it is my last evening, and I think--if you are sure that you would like to have me--that I will risk it." "We will go to a very quiet place," he assured her, "a place where I have often taken my own sisters. You will be wearing your travelling dress, and no doubt you would prefer it. Shall we say at half-past seven?"