He positively trembled with rage, and gnawed his fair moustache as he pushed the packet down into the inner breast-pocket of his coat. “I made no such statement, Captain Pym,” said Hugh, calmly, leaning up against the mantelpiece and watching the young man’s ignoble exhibition of feeling. “I inferred that you might be the writer of them—that was all. The cap fitted, and you yourself voluntarily acknowledged their contents.” “If you had been straightforward,” said Roderick, fiercely, “I should have been so, also. Now, look to yourself! This is my last word to you;” and seizing his hat, he hurried from the room. CHAPTER V. A STARTLING PROPOSAL. Whether some feeling of remorse prompted Roderick to a tardy act of justice, Hugh could only conjecture. In any case, Olivia Fenton’s brother-in-law appeared and claimed the remains of his wife’s sister. There was no inquest, and the unfortunate girl was quietly buried in Woking Cemetery. After those few days of excitement, Hugh’s life fell back into the daily humdrum. His thoughts were concentrated upon his work, now augmented by the final preparation for the coming examination for an important degree, so that the memory of Lilia, and that peculiar feeling, half pleasure, half pain, when he thought back upon his visit to the Pinewood, ceased to trouble him so much. Weeks of quiet study, of unbroken hospital routine: then came two startling days, two startling visits. It was a gusty autumn morning. Hugh was coming out of one ward and just about to enter another, when the hall-porter brought him word that the Rev. Mr. Paull was below and wished to speak with him. He hurried downstairs and found his father, who informed him that he was paying a flying visit to town, and must have a serious talk with him on important business. “It is quite clear we cannot talk here and now,” said Hugh. “No, no, my boy; of course not.” The old gentleman, who looked overwhelmed with some weighty affair or another, asked his son to dine with him at his hotel. * * * * * “And now for the serious talk,” said Hugh, who had been slightly amused at his father’s portentous manner and evident preoccupation during their dinner in a private room at a quiet hotel near Piccadilly, “I can see that something has happened. What is it?” “Well, it is Daisy,” said Mr. Paull. “Daisy! What is wrong?” “Oh, there is nothing exactly wrong. But I shall know better presently. She is thinking of getting married.” “Daisy married!” Hugh smiled. “Why not?” “Somehow I can’t realise the idea of Daisy married. Who is the man?” “Ah!” Mr. Paull drew up his chair and stirred the fire. It was a chill autumnal evening. “Do you remember the Danvers?” he asked.