"Lovell," he said at last, "perhaps you had better go and see this person. You can find out if she is really related to that unhappy man. Here is my purse. You can let her have any money you think proper. If she is the daughter of that wretched man, I should, of course, wish her to be well provided for. I will thank you to tell her that, Lovell. Tell her that I am willing to settle an annuity upon her; always on condition that she does not intrude herself upon me. But remember, whatever I give is contingent upon her own good conduct, and must not in any way be taken as a bribe. If she chooses to think and speak ill of me, she is free to do so. I have no fear of her; nor of any one else." Arthur Lovell took the millionaire's purse and went down stairs with the waiter. He found Margaret sitting in the hall. There was no impatience, no violence in her manner: but there was a steady, fixed, resolute look in her white face. The young lawyer felt that this girl would not be easily put off by any denial of Mr. Dunbar. He ushered Margaret into a private sitting-room leading out of the hall, and then closed the door behind him. The disappointed waiter lingered upon the door-mat: but the George is a well-built house, and that waiter lingered in vain. "You want to see Mr. Dunbar?" he said. "Yes, sir!" "He is very much fatigued by yesterday's business, and he declines to see you. What is your motive for being so eager to see him?" "I will tell that to Mr. Dunbar himself." "You are _really_ the daughter of Joseph Wilmot? Mr. Dunbar seems to doubt the fact of his having had a daughter." "Perhaps so. Mr. Dunbar may have been unaware of my existence until this moment. I did not know until last night what had happened." She stopped for a moment, half-stifled by a hysterical sob, which she could not repress: but she very quickly regained her self-control, and continued, slowly and deliberately, looking earnestly in the young man's face with her clear brown eyes, "I did not know until last night that my father's name was Wilmot; he had called himself by a false name—but last night, after hearing of the—the—murder"—the horrible word seemed to suffocate her, but she still went bravely on—"I searched a box of my father's and found this." She took from her pocket the letter directed to Norfolk Island, and handed it to the lawyer. "Read it," she said; "you will see then how my father had been wronged by Henry Dunbar." Arthur Lovell unfolded the worn and faded letter. It had been written five-and-twenty years before by Sampson Wilmot. Margaret pointed to one passage on the second page.