The blind man lightened the pause. “The only thing I had to thank our enemies for was the loss of my identity. We thought advisable that it stay lost to all but Jane. My sister-in-law, kind as she has been to my girl-child, must have been more relieved than grieved over the alleged finish of one supposed to have disgraced the name. Why my daughter has seen fit to let you, a comparative stranger, into the secret which we have guarded so carefully——” Why? Judging by Jane’s set look at the implied criticism, she either could not or would not explain. The interloper’s eyes, still fixed on hers, reiterated the counter-demand, why not—_why not_? Her father, as though sensing much more than he could see, reached out and stroked her soft, parted, night-black hair. “Never mind, Jen-Jen,” he said. “The fact that you do a thing makes it right enough for me.” With sudden penitent fervor, she seized and kissed his hand. “I don’t know, daddy dear. It is hard to be sure about forced, snap judgments. I hope this Westerner is what I’ve told you he looks. I am glad to have brought him here to have you help me decide. And I haven’t exactly let him into anything. Of his own force—curiosity, superfluous energy or whatever it is that animates him—he has sort of dashed into my life. He knows about the theft of grandfather’s cryptogram and that I’m trying to follow it from memory in my park hunt. But, of course, the enemy knows that or they wouldn’t be watching me or— _Oh_, I do hope that it’s all right—that he’s all right! Now that he has trailed me here, that he knows who and where you are, so much depends upon his integrity. If he is against us and is clever, wouldn’t he pretend just the same to be with us?” Had she forgotten his presence in their midst or was she super-acutely remembering it? Pape wondered. He felt as nearly futile as was constitutional about further attempts to convince her of his fealty. On the part of the Self-Selected, if not on his, that slow-but-sure method would have to do. Time and acts would tell—time and acts and this high-priest of hers, for love of whom she had lit into a devotional taper. He—her father—proceeded at once to fulfill her prayer—to “help her decide.” “Dear,” he proposed, “would it be too much to ask you to serve us tea? If it is, just forget my bad habit. But that last Orange Pekoe you got is delicious. And there are a few fig-cakes left in the box. I’ll try to entertain this latest acquisition of yours while you’re bringing the water to a boil.” He did try—and succeeded. As soon as the girl had left the room, he began in a lowered tone: