Ferdinand Sivewright’s existence meant peril for his old father and for the innocent girl who believed herself to be his daughter. Of that fact Lucius had no doubt, and the one question was how to meet the danger. That the old house was now securely defended, he felt tolerably sure—as sure as one could be about a rambling old place which was all doors and windows, and for aught he knew might still be approachable by some hidden way that had escaped his ken. The great point now would be to prove to Lucille that this man had no claim upon her; that no tie bound her to him, not even the duty of common gratitude for any kindness shown to her in her childhood, since he had made her existence an excuse for extorting money from her father. He, Lucius, must show her that the fancy which her girlish heart had cherished—the fond belief in this father’s love—was more baseless than the dreams of fever, wilder than the fancies of madness. How would he prove this to her? He might show her those letters. But would the evidence of the letters be strong enough to dispel so deep-rooted a belief, so long-cherished a fancy? No, Lucius told himself. The letters, which told their story plainly enough for him, might fail to convince Lucille. ‘I must have some stronger proof than the letters,’ he thought. How to obtain that proof, how to begin the search that was to end in the discovery of Lucille’s parentage, was the question which now absorbed all his thoughts. He had made up his mind to seek no assistance in this difficult task. Whatever blunders he might make, however awkwardly he might transact a business so foreign to the bent of his life, he would do this work for himself, and succeed or fail unaided. ‘If there is a stain upon her birth, no one but I shall discover it,’ he said to himself. Homer Sivewright had read those letters as relating to a secret marriage, yet their wording might be taken to indicate a less honourable relation between the gentleman who signed himself H. G. and the lady who called herself Madame Dumarques.