"Edgar, you told me once that you were acquainted with Miss Cavanagh's father; that you were accustomed to visit him. What kind of a man was he? A hard one?" Edgar, taken somewhat by surprise, faltered for a moment, but only for a moment. "I never have attempted to criticise him," said he; "but let me see; he was a straightforward man and a persistent one, never let go when he once entered upon a thing. He could be severe, but I should never have called him hard. He was like--well he was like Raynor, that professor of ours, who understood everything about beetles and butterflies and such small fry, and knew very little about men or their ways and tastes when they did not coincide with his own. Mr. Cavanagh's hobby was not in the line of natural history, but of chemistry, and that is why I visited him so much; we used to experiment together." "Was it his pastime or his profession? The house does not look as if it had been the abode of a rich man." "He was not rich, but he was well enough off to indulge his whims. I think he inherited the few thousands, upon the income of which he supported himself and family." "And he could be severe?" "Very, if he were interrupted in his work; at other times he was simply amiable and absent-minded. He only seemed to live when he had a retort before him." "Of what did he die?" "Apoplexy, I think; I was not here, so do not know the particulars." "Was he--" Frank turned and looked squarely at his friend, as he always did when he had a venturesome question to put--"was he fond of his daughters?" Edgar had probably been expecting some such turn in the conversation as this, yet he frowned and answered quite hastily, though with evident conscientiousness: "I could not make out; I do not know as I ever tried to; the matter did not interest me." But Frank was bound to have a definite reply. "I think you will be able to tell me if you will only give your mind to it for a few moments. A father cannot help but show some gleam of affection for two motherless girls." "Oh, he was proud of them," Edgar hurriedly asserted, "and liked to have them ready to hand him his coffee when his experiments were over; but fond of them in the way you mean, I think not. I imagine they often missed their mother." "Did you know _her_?" "No, only as a child. She died when I was a youngster." "You do not help me much," sighed Frank. "Help you?" "To solve the mystery of those girls' lives." "Oh!" was Edgar's short exclamation. "I thought I might get at it by learning about the father, but nothing seems to give me any clue." Edgar rose with a restless air. "Why not do as I do--let the matter alone?" "Because," cried Frank, hotly, "my affections are engaged. I love Hermione Cavanagh, and I cannot leave a matter alone that concerns her so nearly." "I see," quoth Edgar, and became very silent.