"Asked?" The brow became a network of astonished wrinkling. "You asked? Whom did you ask? And why? What did you know about us, to give you interest in our comings or goings? This grows curiouser and curiouser! I imagined that we were as absolute strangers to you as you were to us." "It--it--there was the magazine--it was because of the magazine." "Oh, indeed! You knew the name through the magazine! I understand!" The Chieftain straightened himself, and the laugh died out of his eyes. For the first time in the history of their short acquaintance Margot saw his face set in firm, hard lines, the business face which had been left at home, together with the black coats and silk hats of City wear, and seeing it, trembled with fear. But it was too late to retreat; for better or worse she was bound to go forward and complete her half- finished revelations. "I wanted to get to know your brother, because he is the editor of the _Loadstar_, and I had heard people say that he was the most powerful literary man in London; that if he chose to take up any one who was beginning to write he could do more to help than any one else. We know no literary people at home, and I wanted to. Badly!" "I see! Just so. Written a novel, and want help to get it into print," returned the Chieftain slowly. He had drawn down his lips into an expression of preternatural gravity, but the hard look had disappeared. The murder was out, and he was not angry; he might pretend to be, but Margot was too sharp-witted to be frightened by a pretence. She drew a sigh of relief as she replied-- "No, indeed. Couldn't to save my life. It's--Ron! I was thinking of him, not of myself. He is a poet!" The Chieftain groaned aloud, as if in pain. "Oh, I know you won't believe it, but he is! He writes wonderful poems. Not rhymes, but poems; beautiful poems that live in your mind. He will be another Tennyson or Browning when he is a little older." The Chieftain groaned again, a trifle more loudly than before. "It's true! It really is true. You must have seen yourself that he is different from other boys of his age. You heard him reeling off those impromptu lines the other day, and said how clever they were! I have seen you looking at his face when he has been thinking out some idea. I knew what he was doing, and you didn't; but you guessed that he was different from ordinary people." "I saw that he was mooning about something, and wondered if he was right in the head! If he'd been my boy, I should have taken care to keep his nose so close to the grindstone that he would have no time to moon! Poet, indeed! Didn't you tell me that your father was a successful business man? What is he about, to countenance such nonsense?"