Helbeck offered no reply. Conversation between them indeed did not flow very readily. They talked a little about the journey from London; and Laura asked a few questions about the house. She was, indeed, studying the room in which they sat, and her host himself, all the time. "He may be a saint," she thought, "but I am sure he knows all the time there are very few saints of such an old family! His head's splendid--so dark and fine--with the great waves of grey-black hair--and the long features and the pointed chin. He's immensely tall too--six feet two at least--taller than father. He looks hard and bigoted. I suppose most people would be afraid of him--I'm not!" And as though to prove even to herself she was not, she carried on a rattle of questions. How old was the tower? How old was the room in which they were sitting? She looked round it with ignorant, girlish eyes. He pointed her to the date on the carved mantelpiece--1583. "That is a very important date for us," he began, then checked himself. "Why?" He seemed to find a difficulty in going on, but at last he said: "The man who put up that chimney-piece was hanged at Manchester later in the same year." "Why?--what for?" He suddenly noticed the delicacy of her tiny wrist as her hand paused at the edge of her plate, and the brilliance of her eyes--large and greenish-grey, with a marked black line round the iris. The very perception perhaps made his answer more cold and measured. "He was a Catholic recusant, under Elizabeth. He had harboured a priest, and he and the priest and a friend suffered death for it together at Manchester. Afterwards their heads were fixed on the outside of Manchester parish church." "How horrible!" said Miss Fountain, frowning. "Do you know anything more about him?" "Yes, we have letters----" But he would say no more, and the subject dropped. Not to let the conversation also come to an end, he pointed to some old gilded leather which covered one side of the room, while the other three walls were oak-panelled from ceiling to floor. "It is very dim and dingy now," said Helbeck; "but when it was fresh, it was the wonder of the place. The room got the name of Paradise from it. There are many mentions of it in the old letters." "Who put it up?" "The brother of the martyr--twenty years later." "The martyr!" she thought, half scornfully. "No doubt he is as proud of that as of his twenty generations!" He told her a few more antiquarian facts about the room, and its builders, she meanwhile looking in some perplexity from the rich embossments of the ceiling with its Tudor roses and crowns, from the stately mantelpiece and canopied doors, to the few pieces of shabby modern furniture which disfigured the room, the half-dozen cane chairs, the ugly lodging-house carpet and sideboard. What had become of the old furnishings? How could they have disappeared so utterly?