The air with which this was delivered was quite overwhelming. If I had not known Strickland Morley, and a little of his history, I should have been crushed. “Then you have been quite alone since his death?” I asked. Again she hesitated. “For a time,” she said, after a moment. “I lived with a married cousin of his in one of the London suburbs. Then I--But really, Mr. Knowles, I cannot see that my private affairs need interest you. As I understand it, this interview of ours is quite impersonal, in a sense. You understand, of course--you must understand--that in writing as I did I was not seeking the acquaintance of my mother's relatives. I do not desire their friendship. I am not asking them for anything. I am giving them the opportunity to do justice, to give me what is my own--my OWN. If you don't understand this I--I--Oh, you MUST understand it!” She rose from the chair. Her eyes were flashing and she was trembling from head to foot. Again I realized how weak and frail she was. “You must understand,” she repeated. “You MUST!” “Yes, yes,” I said hastily. “I think I--I suppose I understand your feelings. But--” “There are no buts. Don't pretend there are. Do you think for one instant that I am begging, asking you for HELP? YOU--of all the world!” This seemed personal enough, in spite of her protestations. “But you never met me before,” I said, involuntarily. “You never knew of my existence.” She stamped her foot. “I knew of my American relatives,” she cried, scornfully. “I knew of them and their--Oh, I cannot say the word!” “Your father told you--” I began. She burst out at me like a flame. “My father,” she declared, “was a brave, kind, noble man. Don't mention his name to me. I won't have you speak of him. If it were not for his forbearance and self-sacrifice you--all of you--would be--would be--Oh, don't speak of my father! Don't!” To my amazement and utter discomfort she sank into the chair and burst into tears. I was completely demoralized. “Don't, Miss Morley,” I begged. “Please don't.” She continued to sob hysterically. To make matters worse sounds from behind the closed door led me to think that someone--presumably that confounded Mrs. Briggs--was listening at the keyhole. “Don't, Miss Morley,” I pleaded. “Don't!” My pleas were unavailing. The young lady sobbed and sobbed. I fidgeted on the edge of my chair in an agony of mortified embarrassment. “Don'ts” were quite useless and I could think of nothing else to say except “Compose yourself” and that, somehow or other, was too ridiculously reminiscent of Mr. Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell. It was an idiotic situation for me to be in. Some men--men of experience with woman-kind--might have known how to handle it, but I had had no such experience. It was all my fault, of course; I should not have mentioned her father. But how was I to know that Strickland Morley was a persecuted saint? I should have called him everything but that. At last I had an inspiration.